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Double: Wrong 


OR, 

A BROKEN LIFE. 



GEORGES OHNET. 

'( 


A TRANSLATION OF "LE DOCTEUR RAMEAU 

By J. C. CURTIN. 

J i 

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NEW YORK: 

BOLLARD & MOSS, PUBLISHERS, 

37 BARCLAY STREET AND 42 PARK PLACE 
1889. 




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COPYRIGHT, 1889, BY 

J. C. CURTIN. 



PRESS OF 

60WARD O. JENKIN8’ 8ON8, 
NEW YORK. 




A DOUBLE WRONG 


PART I. 

CHAPTER I. 

THE THREE FRIENDS. 

Among the illustrious representatives of contemporary 
medical science, the most universally admired is unques- 
tionably Dr. Rameau of Ferrieres. While acknowledged 
to be the first surgeon of his time, a Professor of Anatomy 
in the Ecole de Medicine, Rameau is also a physician with- 
out a peer. He has made some of the most surprising dis- 
coveries in therapeutics. Gifted with the keenest penetra- 
tion and a singular audacity, he applies, in desperate cases, 
the most daring of remedies. And, with unequalled luck, 
he has performed cures that might almost be deemed 
miraculous. 

To the confidence he inspires in his patients doubtless 
may be ascribed one-half of his success. It is an acknowl- 
edged fact that the appearance of Dr. Rameau at the pillow 
of the sick puts death to flight ; that the patient, on seeing 
the doctor enter, already regards himself as saved. No 
sovereign of Europe can be taken with a serious indisposi- 
tion without calling in Dr. Rameau at the highest cost. 
When the surgeons of Inspruck wished to amputate the 
leg of Archduke Albert, who had tumbled into a ravine 
while hunting, it was Rameau’s ingenious treatment that 
saved the Prince from being a cripple for life. His bill 
for his services on that occasion was a hundred thousand 
thalers. When called to Caprera to perform an operation 


2 


The Three Friends . 


on Garibaldi for a phlegmon of a serious nature, the only 
compensation he asked from the famous adventurer was a 
flower from his garden. 

Rameau is a democrat and a free-thinker. A democrat 
because, sprung from the people, he has retained their 
sturdy doctrine of equality ; a free-thinker because, in his 
profound scientific investigations, he has never met any- 
thing but matter at the end of his scalpel, and his vast in- 
tellect refuses to admit anything that it cannot explain. 
He is one of the champions of evolution, and his studies 
on the perfectibility of races are of the most comprehen- 
sive character. 

In his fiftieth year, and in the enjoyment of a vigorous 
physique that has never been impaired by excesses, Rameau 
is a man of commanding stature, with a countenance fur- 
rowed like a volcanic soil. His large and lofty brow is 
crowned with an abundance of grayish hair, wavy and 
shaggy like the mane of a huge lion. His gray eyes, clear 
and piercing as his steel scalpels, are surmounted by black 
and bushy brows. His florid countenance denotes a blood 
reddened by the activity of a life wholly devoted to labor. 
His mouth and heavy lips betoken kindness. But a deep 
wrinkle that appears between his eyes whenever he is pre- 
occupied or angered gives him a fierce aspect. At the 
hospital, or the amphitheatre, the remark, “ Rameau has 
his wrinkle on,” is a signal of alarm for the students. 
Every one trembles and is silent when the frightful frown 
bars the genial brow of the savant, for his bursts of anger 
are terrible and no one can appease them. 

His rudeness is as notorious as his delicacy. No woman 
could bind a wound or adjust a bandage with a lighter 
hand or defter fingers. And no truck-driver could swear 
more violently at his horses than the doctor does at times 
at his assistants. The terrified patients bury themselves 
in their beds, crouch under the pillows, on hearing the 
thundering voice of the surgeon as he brandishes his 
ghastly operating-knife with a menacing air. He seizes 


The Three Friends . 


3 


them, and the unfortunates, more dead than alive, learn 
with delight that the operation is over when they feared it 
was scarcely begun. Then they bless the marvellous skill 
of this kindly operator, and understand why it is that be- 
hind his back the students and assistants jocosely whisper, 
“ Rameau hurts his patients only with his tongue.” 

This distinguished and meritorious man has attained the 
position he occupies in the scientific world by his strength 
of will and superior intellect. He is of very humble origin. 
His father was a laborer on the Eastern railway and lived 
in a little hut near the Ferrieres road. His mother guard- 
ed the gate. He used to see her with her calico mantle 
wrapped around her, a leathern bonnet on her head, take 
her place before the trains, with her little red signal flag 
in hand whenever a train rushed by. 

Up to his fourteenth year, little Pierre lived with his 
parents, free and careless, helping his mother to roll back 
the heavy gate when the farmers were returning from the 
market of Lagny, cracking their whips to call attention to 
let them pass. His horizon was bounded by the gravelled 
line, with its crossed ties and double steel-track polished 
by the friction of the wheels, and the reverberating wires 
of the telegraph overhead that during the winter nights 
chanted in the wind like an ^Eolian harp. His sole recre- 
ation consisted in the movement of the trains, puffing forth 
their dense smoke and flinging their burning sparks on the 
trembling soil as they rushed past. 

He could neither read nor write, and to all appearances 
was destined to pass his life as an obscure laborer. He 
gave no evidence of any peculiar talent. He did not, like 
Pascal, instinctively trace geometrical lines on the sand. 
He did not knead the slaty clay into marvellous figures 
like Canova. He was very boyish in his play, excelled in 
killing birds with stones, and placing snares in the hedges 
along the railway to catch the hares in the neighboring 
grounds. No prophetic mark was on his brow. A simple 
accident decided his vocation. 


4 


The Three Friends . 


In backing on to a side-track, a freight train crashed 
into a passenger car. There were some killed and several 
wounded. It was late in the evening and quite dark. 
From the capsized and wrecked cars there arose the heart- 
rending cries of the wounded and maimed for help. All 
the employes were hurrying hither and thither in confu- 
sion, scarce knowing what they were about ; little Pierre 
alone had the presence of mind to run for a doctor. He 
returned with him in his buggy, having explained the situ- 
ation to him in a few clear, brief words. Astonished at 
the cool lucidity and exactness of the youngster’s explana- 
tion, the doctor employed him as an attendant while suc- 
coring the wounded. He noticed him sponge the blood, 
without a tremor, from a fireman whose arm he had ampu- 
tated near the shoulder. With an energy that seemed be- 
gotten of insensibility, the lad assisted at the operations, 
never losing his head, executing, point by point, everything 
he was ordered, and lending his help with uncommon skill. 

“Well, well,” exclaimed the doctor to himself, “there is 
a young lad that would become a famous operator if he 
were only taught surgery ! What do you do, my boy ? ” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ That’s not much. At your age one ought to have an 
idea of something. What would you like to be ? ” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ Have you a father and mother?” 

“Yes, they live there.” 

And he pointed toward the little hut whose lighted win- 
dow shone in the darkness. 

“Ah! you are little Rameau. Your parents are good, 
honest people ; I will talk to them. Do you know my 
name ? ” 

“ Yes. You are Dr. Servant, of Lagny.” 

“Well, then, come and see me to-morrow before eight 
o’clock. I'll try and make something out of you.' 

He first sent him to school, to which this little semi- 
savage, brought up in all the freedom of outdoor life, had 


The Three Friends . 


5 


great difficulty in accustoming himself. Not that he lacked 
application. He had been seized from the first day with a 
passionate desire to learn everything. But his bounding 
blood used to rush in waves to his face, causing him to 
turn purple and suffer the most violent of headaches. This 
good patron, Dr. Servant, was often greatly pained on wit- 
nessing these obstacles of nature thrown in the path of the 
child. But Pierre continued his studies without complaint 
or murmur, making the most rapid progress from day to 
day. At the end of a year he was, to the joyous surprise 
of the district teacher, in a condition to compete for a 
burse entrance in the College of Meaux. And he won 
it. From this time forth he advanced with giant strides. 
Impelled by the doctor, encouraged by the Prefect of 
the Department he represented, that looked forward to 
great things from him, he passed his primary examina- 
tions and was admitted, at the age of twenty, both to 
the Ecole Polytechnique and the Ecole Normale. But 
despite the persuasion of the Prefect and the entreaties of 
his teachers, he did not enter either the one or the other. 
He listened to only one advice, that of Dr. Servant, who 
first brought him out of the night of his ignorance, and 
who now said to him, “ Be a physician. Give back to your 
fellow-men what I have given to you. Devote the genius, 
with which you are unquestionably endowed, to the service 
of humanity.” 

After having sustained, with great brilliancy, his medical 
thesis on graduating, he was received as a candidate for 
the Faculty, and prepared for professorial duties, toward 
which he was invincibly attracted. An aggressive mind, 
devoted to progress, he was always seeking the unknown. 
He plunged passionately into the study of chemistry. He. 
even studied the alchemists — Van Helmont, Valentin, Pa- 
racelsus. He knew how to extract from their works all 
that was valuable, and to leave aside all their cabalistic 
mysteries. In the small apartment that he occupied, on 
the fifth floor, Rue de la Harpe, he had transformed the 


6 


The Three Friends . 


kitchen into a laboratory, and he made his experiments on 
the stove that he had skilfully arranged for the purpose. 
At night his neighbors saw the little window aglow with 
fantastic lights. And his good bourgeois neighbors re- 
garded him with dread as he passed along the stairway, 
wrapped up in a long, black redingote, his hair straggling 
from under his huge hat, leaving a vague resemblance to 
the Hofmanesque Doctor Miracle. 

It was at the competition for the professorship that his 
combative nature first asserted itself in all its aggressive 
violence. He astounded the examiners by the boldness of 
his views and the novelty of his observations. This young 
man dared to advance before his teachers theories which 
meant the formal negation of admitted doctrines. He de- 
fended his opinions with a harsh and trenchant eloquence 
that made the Faculty squirm and that elicited the enthu- 
siastic applause of the audience. 

Dr. Rameau’s reformatory ideas were highly displeasing ; 
he was regarded as a rebel to science. He was represented 
as an ambitious disturber, capable, if he assumed a chair in 
the Faculty, of overturning the accepted ideas of the insti- 
tution. His teachers, deeply wounded at being dominated 
by him, placed him on the index. He was twice rejected. 
In violation of all justice he was passed over in favor of 
fellow-students whose mediocrity would not be found em- 
barrassing. Rameau was chafed with anger. And from 
that moment the battle was begun between his masters 
and himself. 

Angered beyond endurance, while still continuing to 
prepare for his new examination, he published some pam- 
phlets that began to draw on him the attention of the 
medical world. Throughout Europe his works were com- 
mented on, and his books translated. The celebrated Pro- 
fessor Schultz, of the Faculty of Leipsic, wrote a brochure 
sustaining the views of the young French savant. The 
opposition of Rameau assumed the proportions of a 
schism. He had passionate partisans who went to the ex- 


The Three Friends . 


7 


tremes of exaggeration. He was obliged in consequence 
to define the limit of his reforms. People began to con- 
sider him reasonable on seeing him curb the fanatics and 
blind partisans. Besides, his name had evoked too great 
a notoriety, and his detractors began to grow timid. The 
scientific press took up the disputed questions, and all 
those who opposed the doctrines of Rameau were treated 
as reactionaries. It became fashionable when talking 
of him to shake the head gravely, and say : “ A re- 
markable genius, a little impetuous, but age will discipline 
his mind. A man who cannot be passed over.” In short, 
a regular republican and free-thinking agitation sprang up 
around Rameau. And timid people, speaking of him, 
were wont to whisper, “ He is a revolutionist and an 
atheist.” 

A revolutionist he certainly was in his art, but not other- 
wise. He entertained a thorough contempt for everything 
appertaining to present day politics. One of the chiefs of 
the Radical movement, wishing to turn the popularity of 
the young scientist to the profit of his party, asked him, on 
one occasion, why, considering his great talents, he did not 
take part in politics. Rameau looked him full in the face 
and brusquely answered, “ Because the task would be too 
easy ! ” 

As to his atheism, it was real, but not aggressive. He 
did not trouble himself concerning the belief of his neigh- 
bors. He had his own opinions on the subject, but he 
never sought to impose them on anybody else. He did 
not conceal the fact that he disbelieved the teachings of 
religion, and on Sundays, at Lagny, in the little house of 
Dr. Servant, seated at table with his benefactor, he allowed 
himself to be drawn into friendly controversy by the old 
physician, who was a firm believer, like all those who live 
in the immense bosom of the country, where the harmony 
of nature bursts forth in its sovereign fullness to the view. 
But he disliked religious discussion. He listened, with a 
tranquil smile, to the violent attacks of the good old man, 


8 


The Three Friends . 


and when he felt too keenly the barb of an epigram, he 
shrugged his huge shoulders like a lion teased by a gnat, 
and answered good-naturedly as he lifted his glass : 

“Your health, Doctor. I will believe in God, if he 
grants me the pleasure of seeing you live to celebrate your 
hundredth birthday.” 

Evidently Providence does not engage in propagandism, 
for Dr. Servant died in his seventieth year, sincerely 
mourned by Dr. Rameau, and leaving behind him one son, 
a captain of artillery. 

The only person with whom Rameau made unreservedly 
free was his friend Talvanne, a physician like himself, 
and a son of the celebrated alienist. Talvanne, des- 
tined to succeed his father in the direction of the asylum 
of Vincennes, was a man of profound and comprehensive 
knowledge, especially on the subject of anthropology. 
His taste for craniometrical investigation amounted al- 
most to a mania. It was not an uncommon thing to see 
him, in the midst of a body of students, rise, draw from 
his pocket a goniometer, a sort of compass with long indi- 
cators, along which a graduated rule operated, and seizing 
hold of the head of one of his comrades measure his bumps, 
and then gravely remark : 

“ Parietal angle almost imperceptible, brachycephalic, 
added to a slight widening of the bump and of the zygo- 
matic arches. An Auvergnat skull, my good man ! ” 

And then, amid loud derisive laughter, everybody would 
cry out : 

“ Bravo, anthropologist ! ” 

Talvanne had made a considerable collection of skulls, 
and he was wont to make frequent experiments, by way 
of determining the cerebral capacity of the specimens. He 
would fill one skull with water, according to the method 
of Saumarez, Vitrey, and Treadwell ; another with mercury 
according to that of Broca ; another with sand, like Hamil- 
ton ; with millet, like Mantegazza; with white mustard-seed, 
like Philipps ; and with small shot, like Morton. And 


The Three Friends . 


9 


when one entered the spacious laboratory that he occupied 
in his father’s house, he found skulls everywhere, on the 
tables, on the chairs, on the chimney, on the clock ; a skull 
even served for a tobacco-box. Everything in anywise 
connected with craniometry interested Talvanne. He even 
collected the paper rings with which fitters and hatters 
take the measure of the heads of their customers. He 
averred that he thus obtained some curious results by way 
of comparison. 

Brought up in the midst of a family that lived amid 
bourgeois surroundings, where advanced ideas were not 
accepted, and watched over by a pious mother, Talvanne 
retained the fundamental truth of his religious belief un- 
shaken through all his scientific studies. An ardent de- 
fender of evolution, he was a deist. And when Rameau 
by chance would intimate his disbelief in the existence of 
God, the most violent discussions used to take place, in 
which Talvanne felt his bourgeois instincts revolt against 
the theories of the materialist, at the same time that his 
scientific impulses tended toward the opinions he com- 
bated. But the bourgeois cause always came out victori- 
ous, and as his indignation increased in proportion to the 
weakness of his conviction, he usually finished by over- 
whelming Rameau with abuse. But the discussion always 
began quietly. 

“ Religion,” Talvanne would say, “is the distinguishing 
characteristic of man. The human being feeling his weak- 
ness experiences the need of believing in a superior power 
that has not been revealed to him.” 

“ If it is not revealed to him, who can prove that it 
exists?” 

“ That innate sentiment that is found among all the inhab- 
itants of the earth, white, black, red or yellow, and which 
makes them adore somebody or something, God, fire, the 
sun, a serpent, or a stone.” 

“ Superstition, mental weakness.” 

“ Without religion it is impossible to govern man.” 


10 


The Three Friends . 


“ I admit that, certainly. Are not the three determining 
motives of religious ideas fear, admiration, and gratitude ? 
'That is why your ministers of religion have ever on their 
lips hell to terrify, miracles to astonish, and divine mercy 
to attract us. They rely on ignorance and human coward- 
ice. What is at the bottom of it all ? Charlatanism! ” 

At such a point as this, Talvanne would invariably lose 
his temper and exclaim: 

“ Blind as you may be, you cannot deny that, at all events, 
there has been a creative power.” 

“ I do not deny it, I simply analyze it, and I find this 
creative force in a latent state in matter. All organic forms 
are born of one another by insensible modifications.” 

“But there is a design in nature,” Talvanne would reply- 
“We must admit the final causes. Everything has been 
made for the use of man by a celestial architect.” 

Rameau would then rise and pace the room, shaking his 
shaggy head. 

“ If everything has been made for the use of man, why 
are there noxious animals, poisonous plants, terrestrial 
cataclysms ? Why do diseases exist ? Ah! yes, you will ex- 
plain that by telling me of a punishment inflicted on man; 
you will relate to me the account of an earthly paradise, of 
Adam and Eve, the history of the first sin, the inventions 
of the theologians! Disease is as old as life, as palaeontology 
demonstrates. You will talk to me of the utility of the or- 
gans and of their adaptation to a definite end ! But com- 
parative anatomy shows us a great number of rudiment- 
ary organs which, useful for one species, are wholly useless 
for others: for instance, a man’s nipples, a whale’s teeth. 
What do you say of hermaphroditism ? What about mon- 
sters ? There are in nature perfectly formed animals born 
without a head, and for which life is an impossibility. Why 
were they created ? The truth is, that the forces of matter in 
their accidental meeting, have given birth to innumerable 
forms ; and of all these forms those only survive which are, 
in some manner, adapted to the conditions of the surround- 


The Three Friends . 


II 


ings in which they are placed. Those having resisted, are 
developed and evolved.” 

“Oh! on that point we are agreed,” Talvanne would 
break in with delight ; “ evolution is my hobby, but it does 
not exclude the idea of a Creator.” 

“ But, you simpleton, what is the use of a Creator, when 
his utility is not demonstrated? You must really have a 
Creator, with a big beard and a thunderbolt in his hand. 
What is that mania for adoration you are possessed of ? 
It is that absurd human weakness which wishes to cling to 
a superior power, like a drowning man to a straw. The 
passion of being governed, and especially of avoiding re- 
sponsibility. If God did not exist, it would be necessary 
to invent him, would it not ? Well, let me say one thing 
to you : if your God does exist, he is a monster who has 
created us for our misfortune and who rejoices in our mis- 
ery. And as I do not wish to give utterance to such an 
impious accusation, I prefer to believe in the natural fe- 
cundity of matter.” 

Rameau, with a rude eloquence, developed his thought, 
adducing the newest philosophic ideas, and with the cold 
precision of an operator carving the living flesh, clipped 
the wings of the spiritual aspirations of his friend. And 
so, far into the night, Talvanne would sit by the corner of 
the fire listening to Rameau, wounded in his sentiments, to 
be sure, but amazed at the savant’s comprehensive grasp 
of his subject, and paying homage to that luminous intel- 
lect which, in whatever direction the chance of life might 
lead it, would achieve distinction. 

And now a third party is to be introduced to share the 
close friendship of these two young friends. On the same 
floor occupied by Rameau, on the Rue La Harpe, lived a 
young German painter, Frantz Munzel, who had come 
from Stuttgart to follow the course of the Ecole des 
Beaux-Arts. He was taciturn, retired, and appeared to be 
wholly immersed in his work. Every evening he could be 
heard playing on the piano selections from Haydn and 


12 


The Three Friends . 


Mozart. He was evidently of a mild and timid disposition. 
Rameau knew that he was a painter, inasmuch as he had 
often met him in the street, with his canvas under his arm 
and his box of colors in his hand. But the two neighbors 
had never exchanged words. They bowed in passing, and 
that was all. They did not even know one another by 
name. Whenever Rameau incidentally spoke of Munzel, 
he simply referred to him as the painter near by. 

One day Munzel returned from the Ecole des Beaux- 
Arts looking very pale. That evening he did not play his 
accustomed sonata. He went to bed suffering from an in- 
tense fever. The following morning he was seized with angina 
that at once assumed a most serious character. His studio 
comrades bound him, one morning, to the model-table, by 
way of a joke, during an intense cold. Three days subse- 
quently the malady had assumed what appeared to be a 
fatal turn. The unfortunate young man lay at the point 
of death. The local physician had just left after remark- 
ing to the concierge that there was no hope, and that any 
operation would be in vain. In this extremity, the latter 
knocked at Rameau’s door. 

The doctor was working in his room, without any fire, his 
legs wrapped up in his bed coverlet, preparing one of the 
theses that had caused him so much discussion. He arose 
silently and, hearing the sick man breathing heavily in the 
obscurity of his chamber, took up his lamp and approached 
the bed. The congested face, the swollen neck, the sunken 
eyes told that the unfortunate man was suffocating. 

“ He will not last an hour,” remarked Rameau, after a 
cursory examination. “ The membranes are affected to 
the nasal ducts. However, I will try tracheotomy.” 

He returned with a bistoury, and cutting the flesh with 
a firm hand he inserted a canula in the throat, and the 
grateful, vivifying air filled the lungs of the dying man. 

“ His family must now be notified.” 

“ He has none. He is alone in Paris — a stranger.” 

Rameau cast a glance at the pale brow crowned with 


The Three Friends . 


13 

blonde curls, and approaching the bed once more carefully 
felt the skull. 

“ According to Camper, we have to do with a subbrachy- 
cephalus. Is your tenant a German ? ” 

“Yes, doctor, but he speaks French fluently,” replied the 
concierge, who did not understand the import of the ques- 
tion asked. 

“ Well, subbrachycephalus and German,” remarked Ra- 
meau, “ that is something to give Talvanne pleasure.” 

During the continuance of the malady Rameau never quit- 
ted Munzel. He was at the same time physician and nurse. 
He worked during the day on the corner of the table, in 
the Wurtemburger’s chamber, and at night he read, taking 
notes by the light of the lamp, while his patient slept. 
“ Do you hear him,” he proudly remarked to Talvanne, 
who had come to see what had happened to his friend ; 
“ he breathes better than he did that morning, eh ?” 

So long as Frantz was confined to his bed, and Rameau’s 
attention bore a professional character, Talvanne evinced 
a real sympathy for the patient. He took the doctor’s 
place beside him, and watched over him without feeling 
his cranium or measuring the nasal angle. He acted, not 
through love of science, but love of humanity. When the 
patient had recovered, however, and Rameau’s interest in 
him assumed a friendly character, Talvanne’s feelings 
toward the painter cooled perceptibly. The affection 
which the young alienist entertained toward him whom 
he regarded as one of the glories of French medical sci- 
ence was too keen not to stimulate jealousy. It required 
the exercise of all the authority that Rameau possessed over 
the mind of Talvanne to induce the latter to accept Frantz’s 
companionship. And thenceforth began an intimacy among 
the three that was often subjected, however, to rude shocks. 

The German dreamer added a new element to the inti- 
mate friendship of Talvanne and Rameau. He was of a 
profoundly mystic nature. He had retained in his imagin- 
ation something of the shade of the lofty Gothic cathedrals 


M 


The Three Friends . 


of his native land. And, through that shade, flitted, radiant 
and charming, the sacred golden nimbus of the cathedral 
windows and the white fays of the legends of the Rhine. 
Rameau used to say smilingly, “ Munzel is a paganized 
Christian.” But he yielded a special indulgence to the 
young man’s ideas that almost put Talvanne beside him- 
self with anger. Whenever a lively controversy on a reHg- 
ious subject took place, and Munzel and Rameau disagreed, 
the doctor would soften his tone, modify his phrases, and 
smooth the angles of his arguments, as if loth to wound the 
sensibilities of his friend. In vain Talvanne would mutter : 

“ But you do not argue with him, you beg from him, you 
drag yourself at his feet. Why do you spare him so ? He 
is no longer sick.” 

But Rameau remained deaf to these upbraidings. Then 
the alienist would take up Munzel’s subject on his own ac- 
count, and substitute for the dreamy argument of the Ger- 
man his own aggressive dialectics. Immediately Rameau 
would be aroused, and Talvanne, after a rough handling, 
would end by paying the price of his temerity. The pow- 
erful voice of the doctor would thunder, flinging his vio- 
lent, destructive phrases pell-mell, overwhelming all oppo- 
sition and rebutting every argument. It would require the 
musical talent of Frantz to calm Rameau, and the doctor, 
regretful at having allowed himself to be carried away by 
impulse, and fearful of having ruffled the feelings of his 
friend, would apologize by saying : 

“ It is all the fault of that imbecile, Talvanne.” 

“'Of me ? I only repeated what Munzel had said,” the 
alienist would hypocritically reply. 

“ Oh ! enough. You bore us. A glass of bier, Frantz. 
And then you will play us a piece from Mendelssohn.” 

And thus the evening would close pleasantly, the Ger- 
man, with eyes turned heavenward, playing the airs which 
had rocked his infancy, and seeming to follow, in the 
vagueness of -his recollections, the slow and dreamy step 
of some fair, sweet blonde, who awaited him far away. 


The Three Friends. 


15 


He must indeed have had some tender engagement, to 
which he wished to remain faithful, as Rameau knew him 
to have kept aloof from all female society. He would not 
talk willingly of his family matters, and his friend could 
never elicit from him anything touching his affairs of the 
heart. He went away every year, in July, to pass a few 
weeks at Stuttgart, with his father, who was a professor 
on the piano and the inventor of a new method of solfeg- 
gio. He used to return melancholy and emaciated, as if 
he had been dwelling in a place where the guests were too 
many and the repasts too frugal. He worked hard, with- 
out ardor, without enthusiasm, but with an unvarying reg- 
ularity. A pupil of Flandrin, he retained a certain native 
dryness in his method of work that savored of the Dussel- 
dorff school. But he could design a picture harmoniously 
and paint it with eclat. He excelled in portrait painting, 
and was beginning to make money. 

Still, his mode of living did not change. He retained 
his modest apartment in the Rue La Harpe ; and, if he 
hired a splendid studio near the Luxembourg, it was to 
impress his patrons and attract customers. But he did 
not seem to grow richer. He denied himself all pleasures, 
and led a life severe in its simplicity. Rameau remarked : 

“ There must be some mysterious hole in that young 
man’s pocket, where his money disappears.” 

“ Pshaw ! ” exclaimed Talvanne, “he is simply a miser. 
The hole leads to his money-box.” 

It required six years to discover the mystery. One day 
while reading a German newspaper Rameau’s eye fell on 
the name Munzel. It was a summary of Court news, and 
it appeared by the article that Otto Munzel, professor of 
music, was defeated in his claim to the method of solfeggio 
by signs, and considered as having appropriated the rights 
of the Pfeiffer Brothers, the sole inventors of the method in 
question ; and it was furthermore added that the said Mun- 
zel was mulcted in the sum of ten thousand marks damages, 
and commanded to publish the same in six journals, etc. 


1 6 


The Three Friends . 


Two days passed without Frantz having put in an ap- 
pearance. In vain did Rameau knock at the door of the 
painter’s apartments ; there was no answer. The doctor, 
feeling uneasy, repaired to the studio near the Luxem- 
bourg. He entered without knocking, and found Munzel 
stretched on a sofa, looking dreamily into vacancy. A 
half-finished picture rested on the easel, dry and dusty, as 
if it had not been touched by the brush in some time. 
The young man did not rise on the doctor’s entrance. He 
simply turned his head, with a faint smile of welcome. 
Without speaking a word, Rameau walked over to the sofa, 
and, drawing forth the journal, pointed out the article 
mentioned. Frantz read, glanced over it hastily, turned 
ghastly pale, and, rising, almost fell into his friend’s arms. 

Here was doubtless the cause of his secret trouble. This 
explained how the artist’s savings had mysteriously disap- 
peared. For ten years the lawsuit pressed by the Pfeiffers 
against Munzel, senior, had been carried from court to 
court, and the expenses ate up all the resources of the 
family. They lived on the scantiest fare all the year 
round, in order to meet the expenses of the trial. But 
the elder Munzel was full of hope, and used to say to his 
wife and children : “ When I shall have won, my method 
will give me at once fame and fortune.” And in the inter- 
val between his music-lessons, he would hasten to his law- 
yer with some new point for his defence. 

The loss of the case, certain, irremediable, was an over- 
whelming blow to the family. To pay the ten thousand 
marks, they would be compelled to sell their scanty furni- 
ture, the piano — in short, all they possessed. A terrible 
misfortune for this struggling family, a burden under 
which Frantz for the past two days had been prostrated. 
He had in his drawer five hundred francs that the mer- 
chant from whom he bought his colors advanced him, but 
not a picture to sell. For a long time past he had sold all 
his paintings as soon as finished, at the lowest prices, as 
the money was sorely needed. What was he to do ? He 


The Three Friends . 


17 


could not leave the family starve and his father go to 
prison. It would, he knew, be the death of the good old 
man. He must come to his aid. And for forty-eight 
hours, stretched on the sofa, he had been turning in his 
mind, day and night, this distressing problem, vainly seek- 
ing a solution. 

Rameau placed his huge hand on Frantz’s shoulder, and 
earnestly exclaimed : 

“ This, then, is the cause of all your privations ? Well, 
do not be troubled, my friend ; we will find the money. I 
have three or four thousand francs in my room, and as for 
the rest, leave it to me.” 

The rest he borrowed from Talvanne, who was deeply 
chagrined at having misjudged the unfortunate artist. 

“ If he has not the bump of avarice,” he remarked, how- 
ever, “ he has that of ingratitude. Mark his head. It is a 
regular model of its kind. After having studied such a 
head, instead of opening his heart to its possessor, a wise 
man would shut it against him.” 

“Ah ! You bore me with your craniology,” rudely snap- 
ped Rameau. “ Instead of reducing all individual con- 
formations to special types, you stray away completely. 
You will end by being as great a lunatic as your own pa- 
tients.” 

But Talvanne held his opinion. 

“Well, well ; we will see. The future will give you a 
lesson concerning the gratitude of that man.” 

Despite the diagnosis of Talvanne, the years passed 
by without anything intervening to mar the harmony of 
their friendship. Each continued to score new triumphs. 
Talvanne succeeded his father and became the great au- 
thority on medical jurisprudence, whose sole weakness was 
to see irresponsibility in every criminal. Munzel became — 
thanks to the immense influence of Rameau — a painter of 
great prominence. All three advanced on the path of fame 
and fortune. 

Rameau was then a professor of anatomy, and had en- 


The Three Friends . 


18 

tered the Medical Academy. His influence in the scientific 
world was undisputed' He was as much admired as feared. 
With singular energy, he had surmounted every obstacle 
in his path. He was a terror to his opponents. He had 
the audacity to attempt anything, and the genius to accom- 
plish it. There was not a scientist living who did not bear 
the marks of his blows. He had taken them one by one, 
each in his own sphere, and proven himself their master. 
He was gentle only with the weak and humble. But the 
proud and presumptuous he tore to pieces with a savage 
joy. 

He rarely mingled in society. His brusque manner was 
not adapted to the stiff conventionalities of the salon, and 
his voice was not cultivated to that commonplace softness 
which befits murmured conversation. When he was thrown 
into society, he was ill at ease, taciturn and retiring, and if 
he was perchance drawn out, he talked with a passionate 
eloquence which always astonished and frequently shocked 
his auditors. He was everywhere regarded as an original 
character. People used to say of him : “ His brain is a 
little off, but that is the invariable penalty of genius. But 
what a wonderful surgeon and what an admirable physician 
he is ! He saves all his patients ! ” 

On Sundays he dined with Munzel, and on Thursdays 
with Talvanne. These were his recreation days. Between 
his two friends he forgot all the cares of his life, devoted 
as it was to incessant labor. His brow gleamed, he gave 
free reign to his fancy, and his powerful imagination, 
slightly Rabelaisian at times, burst forth in the most enter- 
taining conversation. He delighted in guying Talvanne, 
and uttered the most astounding paradoxes, which the 
simple-minded alienist undertook to refute with a tenacity 
that immensely tickled Rameau’s sense of humor. 

Talvanne had published a work entitled “Races and De- 
scent,” in which he had recorded a long series of cranio- 
metrical observations, by means of which he pretended to 
establish a sure rule of genealogy. A child, born of such 


The Three Friends . 


19 


a father, belonging to such a race, and of such a mother, 
belonging to another race, should, according to his doc- 
trine, have a head of a certain conformation, and it was 
easy, on examination, to discover on his skull the traces of 
the generations from which he had sprung. This method, 
presented by the alienist in a most ingenious manner, had 
attracted attention. The Revue Anthropologique discussed it 
at much length. It was the great subject of controversy 
between Talvanne and Rameau. The latter took a malign 
pleasure in bringing up the subject, spreading snares for 
his friend and experiencing the delight of a school-boy 
when he fell into them. 

“ Here is a child,” Rameau would say, “of the Spanish 
race, born with an occiput of that type ; his nurse does not 
like a head of that kind, and with her hands she shapes the 
little cranium, soft as wax, and makes it as round as the 
head of a Norman. What becomes of your theory then ? 
Where do you find the traces of descent? You are given 
the head of this Spaniard for examination when an adult. 
You measure it, and then gravely declare that he was 
born at Yvetot.” 

“You are absurd,” Talvanne would growl. 

“ That is easily said. But the fact remains that your 
method is not absolute. The results you deduce vary. 
Your observations are amusing, but valueless.” 

“Amusing! They are rigorously, undeniably exact. 
That is, so far as generalities are concerned. If you wish 
to seek exceptions, you can find them in everything. And 
as the saying runs, they prove the rule.” 

Despite this raillery, however, Rameau warmly cham- 
pioned the candidacy of his friend for the Medical Acad- 
emy. If he was pleased to deny, in friendly argument 
with Talvanne, the scientific value of the latter’s doctrines, 
he proclaimed their merit in public. He had written an 
admirable preface for Talvanne’s “Treatise on Mental Dis- 
eases,” in which he discussed with matchless ability the 
question of hereditary insanity. The book had, thanks to 


20 


The Three Friends . 


this splendid essay, obtained considerable success. Thus 
Rameau, excellent at heart, but galling in manner, while 
martyrizing Talvanne, wrought zealously for his fame. 

This was the shining trait of Rameau’s character. The 
philosophic grasp of his mind was boundless. Confident 
in himself, he enunciated his materialistic doctrines with 
the rude vigor of a Calvin. He overthrew every obstacle. 
His genius, like a devouring flame, consumed everything 
that sought to arrest its expansion, and his public profes- 
sion of faith had all the more effect as he made it in an 
official capacity. 

It was at the inauguration of the Society of Contempo- 
rary Philosophy, when responding to the flabby and empty 
address of the Minister of Public Instruction, that Rameau 
pronounced his celebrated discourse on the creation of 
man and the substance of the soul. He discussed the 
question in relation to the hypothesis of a soul essentially 
distinct from the body. And after discussing the facts 
with marvellous lucidity, he arrived at the conclusion that 
nothing in his physiological studies led him to admit the 
existence of a soul. And then, in a voice of thunderous 
tones, he attacked the whole system of theology, conclud- 
ing with an absolute denial of the divinity and the glorifi- 
cation of his agnosticism. 

Scarce had he finished speaking when a void was created 
around him. All the functionaries who occupied the stage 
disappeared with astonishing quickness. In a moment all 
that Rameau could see was their vanishing forms. A 
group surrounded the Minister, who appeared quite agi- 
tated, and such expressions as “ a gross scandal,” “ whither 
are we drifting ? ,! and so forth, could be heard. Rameau, 
shunned as one infected, walked out and entered his car- 
riage. He met Talvanne, who was awaiting him and deeply 
grieved. The alienist could only say : 

“ Oh ! my friend, what a fatal use you make of your ad- 
mirable talents. What monstrous doctrines you have enun- 
ciated ! ” 


The Three Friends . 


21 


And filled at once with horror and admiration, and im- 
pelled by his warm friendship, the good Talvanne heartily 
shook the hand of the great man, who silently withdrew, 
amid official reprobation. 

The following morning Rameau was informed that he 
was relieved of his duties as professor. He made no pro- 
test. He was an agitator in the world of ideas only. His 
removal caused a lively sensation in the students’ quarter, 
where the discourse created a furor. Demonstrations were 
organized by the students, who assembled in crowds under 
the savant’s window, and made the street ring with their 
cheers. But Rameau was deaf to these appeals and re- 
mained invisible. He had taken refuge with Munzel, and 
stretched on the artist’s sofa smoked placidly while listen- 
ing to his friend. The latter let his fingers wander over 
the keys of the large piano that flung to the sonorous and 
lofty roof the grave and tender melodies of his dreamy 
inspiration. 

Driven from his professorial chair, Rameau engaged in 
the practice of his profession. This atheist, that the great 
pious world wished to exorcise, was nevertheless invariably 
summoned whenever a serious case occurred. People used 
to say, “ He has signed a compact with Satan.” But a 
cure, even if it come from Hades, is still a cure, and the 
sick do not care by what means they are made well. 

Rameau’s practice brought him in over two hundred 
thousand francs a year. He had acquired a fortune, but, 
with his simple tastes, did not know how to enjoy it. 
Talvanne tried to make him believe that he should live on 
a grander scale. He wished him to remove to more sump- 
tuous quarters, but Rameau persistently refused. He con- 
tinued to occupy the house on the Rue La Harpe ; the only 
change he made was in moving from the fifth to the first 
floor. He there occupied five rooms, which he found am- 
ply sufficient. He used the parlor as an office, and, about 
four o’clock, his consultation time, even the ante-chamber 
used to be crowded with people. His servant gave tickets 


22 


Love and Marriage . 

to all as they entered, and rich and poor had to await their 
turn alike. Frequently the most fashionable of carriages 
could be seen drawn up before the door, while the coach- 
men, dressed in their dazzling uniforms, looked down with 
disdain on the muddy street that contrasted so vilely with 
the cleanly-swept thoroughfares of the aristocratic quarters. 


CHAPTER II. 

LOVE AND MARRIAGE. 

However, Providence, as Talvanne said, or Chance, as 
Rameau replied, was preparing to modify the latter’s ex- 
istence. One day, during consultation hours, a woman of 
apparently forty years of age, dressed like a middle-class 
servant, and carrying a dripping umbrella, presented her- 
self at the house and asked to see Dr. Rameau immediately. 
The valet, in his black suit and white cravat, like a ministe- 
rial officer, handed her a ticket, and opened the door of an ad- 
joining room, in which were fifteen persons waiting silently 
and patiently. The woman uttered an exclamation, and 
took a step backward. The servant shut the door and po- 
litely said : 

“ If you think you will have to wait too long, come back 
to-morrow, but two hours earlier.” 

“To-morrow!” exclaimed the woman, clasping her 
hands, with an expression of blank despair. “ But it will 
be too late, perhaps, this evening. I must talk with the 
doctor right away.” 

“ That’s impossible ! ” 

“ My mistress must die, then, without assistance. Dear 
me ! What will mademoiselle say ? ” 

She sat down wholly overcome, and burst into tears, 
which she wiped away with her apron, apparently oblivious 
of her surroundings. 


23 


Love and Marriage . 

“ But, madame,” ventured the valet, somewhat touched, 
despite his habitual coolness in presence of the human suf- 
fering that he daily witnessed. 

The ring of a bell interrupted him, and leaving the af- 
flicted lady, he opened the door and waited to escort out 
the person who had been in consultation with the doctor. 
Within the obscurity of the room the huge form of Ra- 
meau appeared. He was speaking a few parting words 
with his patient. 

The weeping woman outside raised her head. With that 
intuition which trouble lends, she guessed that the stranger 
within was the savior whose services she had come to seek, 
and rising quickly she rushed into the office. Rameau re- 
garded her with an amused smile, and in a pleasant voice 
said : 

“Well, my good lady, what can I do for you ? ” 

“Ah ! my dear sir,” answered the woman, excitedly, 

you are Dr. Rameau, are you not ? ” 

“lam.” 

“ It is Heaven that inspired me to rush in to you. Oh ! 
dear. Your servant told me that I should have to wait, or 
else come back to-morrow. Just as if death would wait ! ” 

“ Death?” 

“ Yes, my good sir, death ! Our physician has said it ; 
it is only a question of hours. If the operation is not per- 
formed this evening, my mistress will not survive the night. 
And it seems there is nobody but you who can do it. 
Mademoiselle cried to me, ‘ Run for Dr. Rameau, and be 
sure you bring him. Promise him anything he wants. 
We will sell the furniture, if necessary, to pay him. But 
mother must be saved ! * ” 

Rameau knit his brow. The woman saw a shadow pass 
over his grave countenance. She blushed and said, con- 
fusedly : 

“ Pardon me. I am so troubled that I say everything as 
it comes to my mind. But I am sorry if I have annoyed 
you.” 


24 


Love and Marriage . 


Rameau made a careless gesture. 

“ Are the people poor ? ” he asked. 

“ Alas ! yes, the dear ladies, though they were once in 
high position. That makes their present situation all the 
harder. But they are so good that one could die for them. 
And mademoiselle is so sweet and lovely ! Ah ! doctor, if 
you only knew her ! ” 

“ What is the matter with the sick woman ? ” 

“ Oh ! it is some gangrenous trouble. At first they 
treated her for rheumatism of the shoulder, and the next 
day she was at the point of death. Ah ! sir, if she had 
been still wealthy, she would not have been left to go to 
death’s door for want of proper treatment. But if the 
poor die, no one cares.” 

Rameau shook his head, and softly answered: 

“ No, my good woman. That is not so.” 

He rang a bell ; his valet appeared. 

“ Bring me my hat.” 

“ Oh ! heaven! You are coming, then ?” cried out the 
woman, in joyous surprise. “Wait; I will go and get a 
cab ! ” 

“ No ; my carriage is outside,” replied Rameau, with a 
smile ; “we can go all the quicker. Where do you live ? ” 

“ The Boulevard des Batignolles.” 

“ But,” interposed the valet, “ there are people in the par- 
lor who have been waiting since morning.” 

“ Tell them to come back to-morrow,” replied Rameau. 

He picked up his case of instruments, and, followed by 
the woman, stepped briskly out. 

At the corner of the Rue des Batignolles, near the hot- 
baths establishment, whose imposing fagade looks out on 
the boulevard, stands a five-story house, whose paint, 
washed away by the rains and blackened by the beating of 
carpets, gives the building, naked and desolate as it is, a 
look of squalid misery. A narrow door opens into a 
flagged corridor, which passes by the room of the con- 
cierge, and leads to a stairway whose green painted walls 


Love and Marriage . 


25 


were scaling off from the dampness. A dim light guides 
one to the head of the rickety stairway. The steps are 
rough with the layers of mud that have accumulated on 
them from the daily passage up and down of the hundreds 
of occupants of this tenement-hive. 

The servant, ascending ahead of Rameau with the rapid- 
ity of a person whose feet know every inch of the stairway, 
stopped from time to time, with anxiety, saying : 

“ Be careful, there is a turn there ; hold on to the ban- 
ister.” 

She looked as if she wished she could lift up in her arms 
the savior she had triumphantly brought with her. On the 
fourth floor she stopped, and, drawing forth a key, she 
opened a door which bore a brass plate with the words, 
“Mme. Etchevarray, Modes,” engraved on it. Nothing 
could be more saddening than that attractive and pompous 
sign, “Modes,” on this miserable plate, in this house that 
reeked with squalor. What bonnets, alas ! they make in 
this quarter, where the women go around bareheaded or 
with a calico handkerchief tied about their ears. A sad 
trade that could not support the toiler ! 

The entrance apartment was a dining-room, black and 
smoky, furnished with a walnut table, four chairs, and a 
sideboard, which bore the remains of a meagre meal. 
Faded cotton curtains hung on the windows that looked on 
the yard. The occupants of the other rooms had hung out 
on their windows to dry dish-cloths and wash-rags, from 
which emanated the unsavory odors of the sink. 

Rameau took in the entire surroundings at a glance, while 
the servant passed quickly into an adjoining room. An ex- 
clamation was heard, and in a door which suddenly opened 
the doctor beheld the most radiant incarnation of living 
beauty that ever met his vision. He felt his hands pressed 
by another pair of nervous and warm palms, and he heard 
a sweet voice which said : 

** Ah ! sir, how thankful we are to you ! ” 

And, without having had time to say a word in reply, 


26 


Love and Marriage. 

he found himself led to the foot of a bed on which lay a 
pale and emaciated woman. There the professional in- 
stinct at once took possession of Rameau ; his eyes recov- 
ered their wonted clearness, the humming in his ears 
ceased. He became once more the great physician, of un- 
erring glance. He forgot everything that did not apper- 
tain to his patient. 

“ It is behind the neck, doctor, between the shoulder and 
the nape,” the sweet voice again said. 

He began an examination of the suffering woman. Com- 
pletely prostrated, she could only moan, without power to 
utter a word. Huge beads of perspiration shone on her 
forehead, jaundiced and seared with suffering. The arte- 
ries of her arm, which hung over the side of the bed, pal- 
pitated violently. A purple swelling, beneath the right ear, 
protruded from the bandages wrapped around the neck. 
With delicate touch, Rameau removed the bandages, and 
his countenance assumed a grave aspect. 

“ How is it that the disease was allowed to develop to 
such a degree ? ” he asked. 

He drew back a few steps, and, turning toward the ser- 
vant who had summoned him: 

“ Make me some bandages,” he said. 

And, placing his hat on the table, he took up his cast of 
instruments, and withdrew to the adjoining room. 

“ Doctor, are you going to operate on mother immedi- 
ately ? ” the young girl inquired, with evident emotion. 

Rameau raised his eyes and saw that she was deathly 
pale. 

“Isn’t it for that you sent for me?” he answered, in a 
softened tone. 

“ Is it as serious as our own physician represented it to 
be ? ” 

" It is very serious, mademoiselle.” 

“ Oh, dear. But you see the weak condition mother is 
in. Could you not possibly defer it till to-morrow?” 
v “ No, miss ; your mother’s condition is of a most serious 


Love and Marriage . 27 

character. She is suffering from a gangrenous anthrax, 
which has been allowed to extend almost to the carotid 
artery. Her recovery depends on a question of hours. 
This evening it would be perhaps too late ! ” 

The young girl was prostrated ; she trembled violently, 
and stood leaning on the table with her head bowed on her 
bosom. Rameau could not help gazing at her. She was 
of medium height, willowy, and possessing that noncha- 
lant grace of the women of the South. Her dark com- 
plexion was brightened by the ruby freshness of her lips 
and the brilliancy of her dark eyes. Her black, wavy 
hair covered a somewhat low forehead, marked by dark, 
haughty eyebrows. Her entire person exhibited an ele- 
gance and distinction of the rarest type. She was one of 
those women who, no matter in what situation the caprice 
of fate might have placed her, would command superiority. 
Even in this humble dwelling, dressed in a shabby robe of 
gray woollen, she presented the air of a queen. 

“ Will the operation last long?” she asked. 

“Yes, miss. Your mother must be anaesthetized. You 
will, therefore, please send for your family physician to 
assist me.” 

The servant went for the physician in question, but he 
did not come for two hours. Rameau, having returned to 
the sick-room, where the patient was sleeping soundly, 
began to converse in low tones with the young girl. He 
did not for a moment think of leaving. He could, had he 
so desired, employ the interval in making some urgent 
visits to his patients. But a secret charm retained him. 
In the growing darkness he could no longer clearly distin- 
guish surrounding objects. A vague shadow gathered 
around him. The silhouette of the young girl was darkly 
carved on the window, lit up by the lamp from the street. 
They continued their conversation, — he quite fatherly, 
with his grave voice ; she all simplicity, but feeling an 
emotion that she vainly tried to conceal. Her nerves, 
strained for a week by uneasiness and fatigue, suddenly 


28 


Love and Marriage . 


relaxed, and in the darkness beside the bed of her dying 
mother, in company with this illustrious savant, whom she 
regarded as a savior, she allowed herself to unveil all the 
misfortunes and misery of her life. 

Her name was Conchita, and she was the daughter of 
Jos£ Etchevarray, a Spanish captain, who had escaped into 
France with the broken remains of a Car list force that had 
been crushed by the soldiers of Isabella. Her mother had 
brought her to Carcassonne, where the French Government 
had interned the refugees. She was then seven years of 
age. Her father had accepted a situation as bookkeeper 
in a large wine-house. And in this beautiful country, 
under the blue sky, almost like that of her own Spain, they 
lived in quiet happiness. The war over, and the confine- 
ment having ceased, the Carlist captain removed to Paris, 
where he hoped to obtain, through his connections, a de- 
sirable situation. But the fraternity of the camp had dis- 
appeared with the uniform. The chiefs of the insurrec- 
tionary movement who had taken refuge at Paris received 
coldly the soldier of their lost cause. They talked abun- 
dantly of the sufferings so nobly borne by their partisans. 
They knew of numbers of brave men deserving of their 
assistance, and in a much worse plight than the captain. 
Unquestionably they appreciated his services, and they 
would leave no means unused to secure him employment. 
But it required time. The disappointed Carlist, seeing no 
hope of assistance, and regretting the loss of his position 
in Carcassonne, bravely undertook to support his wife and 
child by giving lessons in Spanish. His wife, who was 
clever in her way, sought employment in the establish- 
ment of a fashionable modiste, and thus by constant 
effort, though not without many privations, the family 
managed to support themselves. 

For ten years their life passed without vicissitudes or 
accidents, monotonous and dull — the father every morning 
starting out to give his lessons, the mother seating herself 
at the table, and with her agile fingers fashioning her 


29 


Love and Marriage. 

laces, silks, and satins. When fourteen years of age, Con- 
chita began to assist her mother. She excelled in shaping 
bonnets, and in gracefully placing a bird amid the trim- 
mings of a hat. This little girl, who had seen nothing, 
who was denied the influences of a life of refinement, pos- 
sessed an innate taste that was the envy and admiration 
of many. She soon attracted the attention of the modiste 
for whom she worked. This lady desired to take her into 
her shop, and offered her brilliant inducements. But 
Etchevarray refused. His daughter as she grew up became 
more and more charming. He saw her bloom fresh and fair 
as the flowers of her native land. He would not consent 
to her leaving his home, fearful of the dangerous influences 
of the workshop and the freedom of the streets. But to 
make the most of Conchita’s skill, he took up his resi- 
dence in the Rue Taitbout in a small apartment on the 
ground-floor, where he opened a millinery shop. There 
the two women toiled with all the more industry as they 
were now working for themselves. For five years the 
little business prospered, and Madame Etchevarray had a 
fair run of custom, when the Carlist captain died suddenly 
of an aneurism. 

The two women were now left to their own resources. 
Worn with grief, which she vainly tried to conceal from 
her daughter, the widow fell ill. She endeavored to strug- 
gle on, but exhausted herself in the effort. Cared for by 
Conchita and Rosalie, the devoted servant, who had ac- 
companied the family since its departure from Carcas- 
sonne, Mme. Etchevarray recovered. But she had exhaust- 
ed both her energies and her fortitude. She remained 
whole days, she who was formerly so industrious, with her 
eyes fixed on vacancy, and her needle lying idle between 
her fingers. If her daughter spoke to her, she started and 
recovered herself slowly, as if coming back from a realm 
of dreams. In vain Conchita redoubled her efforts, work- 
ing night and day ; the patronage so painfully secured 
gradually disappeared. Want, at length, entered the little 


30 


Love and Marriage . 

dwelling. The creditors became more exacting. Finally, 
after two years of a painful and futile struggle, the brass 
plate, Mrne. Etchevarray , Modes , which ornamented the door 
of the little shop in the Rue Taitbout, was nailed to the 
door of the fourth floor of the house in the Rue des Ba- 
tignolles. 

And in tms crowded quarter, far removed from the fash- 
ionable centre, the two women led a melancholy existence, 
obliged to work once more for strangers, without the hope 
of ever again climbing the ascent from which they had 
been so suddenly precipitated. And now the widow was 
taken ill, and Conchita, pressed between the exigencies of 
her daily task and the absorbing care of her mother, had 
seen their debts increase day by day, and the pawn-tickets 
in the drawer replacing every article of any value that re- 
mained in the house. And powerless to struggle longer 
against these accumulated misfortunes, the young girl had 
heard with anguish the physician who attended her mother 
talk of a serious operation that would have to decide the 
life or the death of the patient. 

In the darkness, which was now complete, Rameau had 
listened to this sad recital, broken by the tears of Conchita 
and her hopeless supplications. The heart of the illustrious 
physician was filled with profound pity. He, who had 
been for so long steeled to human suffering, was melted 
with compassion for that young girl, whom he had not 
known two hours before. His heart beat quicker, and a sud- 
den fire burned in his breast. And he whose haughty irony 
had made the boldest wince, now felt himself grow timid. 

These two hours of waiting had passed as if they were 
but moments ; when later on he endeavored to recall them, 
and to fix their details in his memory, he could only recol- 
lect a confused and sweet impression, the sensation of a 
delicious and irresistible enchantment. His first clear ideas 
after that meeting were the arrival of his confrere and the 
performance of the operation under the very eyes of Con- 
chita. 


3i 


Love and Marriage . 

He remembered seeing her pale and trembling, clinging 
to the bedstead for support, while the physician felt the 
pulse of the patient and administered the anaesthetic. Then 
a series of indifferent incidents, as far as himself was con- 
cerned — the instruments spread out on the table, the blood 
saturating the pillow, and the cries of the tender-hearted 
old servant, at the sight of her mistress lying as if dead 
under the pitiless knife. And then, the operation over, the 
hysteric tears of Conchita, who would not be comforted, 
and who, in the excess of her suffering, looked more charm- 
ing than ever. 

He left that humble home with regret, promising to re- 
turn next day, and astounding his confrere, who knew his 
proverbial brusqueness, by the caressing tenderness of his 
words. And he did, in fact, return each day until the cure 
was complete. And never, indeed, was a patient treated 
like Mme. Etchevarray. Rameau not only ordered the 
medicines, and had them sent to the house to spare the 
faithful Rosalie the trouble of going for them; but he never 
came without the choicest fruits and the most beautiful 
flowers. One day he asked the servant concerning the 
pecuniary condition of the family, and after exacting a 
promise from her to say nothing about it, he offered all the 
money requisite for the needs of the household. This offer 
Rosalie indignantly refused, thereby greatly embarrassing 
the doctor. And she lost no time in relating the incident 
to Conchita and her mother. 

“ Do you know," she began, “ that he begged me to ac- 
cept his money, saying that it could be paid back by and 
by, if you wished, but to say nothing about it to you at 
present. It was wrong in him to make such an offer 
There is no doubt but that man loves mademoiselle. And 
he succeeds in everything he undertakes, too. He is not 
so old, either. And what a superb presence he has ! But 
I refused his offer, as I did not know what his intentions 
were." 

“ Oh ! hold your tongue, Rosalie," interrupted Conchita. 


32 


Love and Marriage . 


“You do not know what you are saying. The doctor is 
very good ; he has taken an interest in us. But now 
mamma is completely recovered and he will probably not 
trouble himself by coming to see us any more.” 

The following day Rameau found the two ladies a trifle 
cool and formal. They expressed their deepest gratitude 
to him for the care he had lavished on madame, and inti- 
mated to him that any more visits on his part would be as 
detrimental to him, by losing his valuable time, as embar- 
rassing to them, who were unable to explain his kindness 
and assiduity. However, they hoped some day to be able to 
repay him. Meantime, Conchita offered him a charming lit- 
tle chiffonnier in antique silk, which she had secretly made 
with that intention. In the presence of this young girl, who 
offered this little present, with tears of gratitude, Rameau, 
for the first time in his life, was dumfounded. He stam- 
mered a few words of vague thanks, and turning around 
abruptly, hastily withdrew. 

As he went along, having recovered from his confusion, 
he reproached himself in the following fashion: Why should 
he, at his age, plunge into a love affair, like a hare-brained 
young student? In his fiftieth year, with his hair turning 
gray, to fall in love with a little girl ! As if he should 
yield to any other passion than that of science, the exclu- 
sive and jealous mistress that admits of no divided atten- 
tions. But while thus reasoning with himself, the sweet 
face of Conchita again appeared, with her dark eyes and 
wealth of wavy hair, and her rich, smiling lips. A tremor 
of pleasure passed through his veins, and he heaved a sigh 
at the thought of all the treasures that he disdained. He 
reached home. There, shaking his shoulders, as was his 
custom when he wished to put an end to a discussion with 
Talvanne, he muttered: 

“Pshaw! To the deuce with the women! Think no 
more about them ! ” 

And, bounding up-stairs four steps at a time, he plunged 
into his study, and was soon absorbed in his usual work. 


33 


Love and Marriage . 

He slept none that night. Buried in his huge arm-chair 
before his desk, which was littered with proof-sheets of a 
book that he had prepared for publication, he puffed his 
cigar, with his eyes fixed dreamily on space, repassing all 
the events of his life, and asking himself if he had not been 
the dupe of a chimera, in allowing himself to become exclu- 
sively absorbed in study and labor. The charm of home- 
life, the joy of mutual love, the pleasure of seeing himself 
perpetuated in his children, the tranquil happiness of the 
humblest of his fellow-men — he had disdained all. And 
what did he receive in compensation ? An European repu- 
tation, honorary positions, titles, and decorations. But 
could he not have acquired all these just as surely by lead- 
ing a married life ? Would not quiet and tranquillity be as 
productive of results as agitation ? Would the sentiments 
of the heart be prejudicial to the action of the brain ? Like 
old Faust in his laboratory, he had before him, in the midst 
of his books, the agitating vision of the young girl, and a 
sigh of regret broke the stillness around him. 

When morning came, he banished these thoughts, turned 
to his usual work, went his rounds, visited the hospital, and 
dined with Talvanne, whom he astonished by the brilliancy 
of his paradoxical imagination, that now seemed to be more 
extravagant than ever before. At length, about ten o’clock, 
this ardor having cooled, he stretched himself on the sofa, 
and, having rested in silence for a long space, arose with a 
dejected air and proceeded to his apartments. 

For an entire week this mood continued, to the great 
anxiety of Talvanne, who finally ventured to question him. 
He only succeeded in irritating him. Rameau berated his 
friend, pronounced him an imbecile, and displayed such a 
temper that the alienist left him, firmly convinced that 
something was wrong with that powerful brain. 

He consulted Munzel, who, proceeding by totally differ- 
ent methods, touched at the first stroke the sensitive chord, 
and provoked an access of tenderness, during which the 
great man imparted the entire secret to him. The senti- 


34 


Love and Marriage . 


mental and mild German sympathized with Rameau, and 
softened his rigorous nature. He proved to him that to 
reject happiness when it presents itself is to commit a crime 
against oneself. And, before evening, he had persuaded 
him to go once more and see Conchita. From seeing her 
to marrying her was but a single step, and that was soon 
made. 

Then an extraordinary flowering of love took place in the 
heart of Rameau. He thought of naught else but his 
fiance. Everything was subordinated to her. This man, 
who had hitherto disdained to waste his time in the joys of 
love, now gave himself up to the tender passion absolutely. 
His countenance beamed beneath his gray hair, like a rose 
that blooms in autumn. He had all the fancies of youth, he 
dressed with elegance, and astounded the scientific world by 
showing them a Rameau, buoyant, brilliant, smiling — one 
of the most unexpected phenomena of this latter quarter of 
the century. 

But he was himself again, when it came to a question of 
being married in the church. When Mme. Etchevarray 
suggested the publication of the banns in the parish church, 
the materialist cast on her such a withering glance that the 
good woman did not dare make further reference to the 
matter. But Conchita returned to the charge. The Span- 
ish girl, as superstitious as pious, looked with horror on a 
marriage without the benediction of the priest. And with 
tears in her eyes she implored Rameau to conform to the 
rule. 

For the first time he was unyielding. He shook his huge 
head, and in the most delicate way tried to make the young 
girl understand that to submit to a religious marriage 
would be giving the lie to his past professions; would be a 
denial of all his convictions, and a humiliating recantation 
of his doctrines. Certainly, he would like to do anything 
to please her, but he could not expose himself to ridicule 
to satisfy the caprice of a child ! 

Conchita did not argue the question. She had recourse to 


35 


Love and Marriage . 

the eloquence of tears. But Rameau remained unshaken. 
She then grew cold and silent. She allowed the savant to 
argue for hours, without paying the least attention to his 
reasoning. All his passionate eloquence had no effect on 
her. She remained firm in her resolution. At the termi- 
nation of all his pleading, her unvarying answer was: 

“ No church, no marriage.” 

He departed without having come to any decision, and 
poured out on the devoted Talvanne a torrent of anger 
that almost bereft the good man of his senses. The alien- 
ist had the misfortune to say to him with ironic good- 
nature : 

“ After all, I do not understand you. What harm can it 
do you to go to church ? You will perform that formality 
as a matter of worldly convenience. Have I not seen you 
a score of times both in the synagogue and the church on 
the occasion of the funerals of your deceased confreres ? 
Did it entail any disgrace on you ? You occupied your 
seat decently, as became a gentleman ; you assisted at the 
ceremonies without taking any part in them. What was 
there wrong in that ? The great advantage of atheism is 
that it allows one to tolerate without inconvenience the 
most diverse forms of religious belief. The moment one 
does not believe, he is relieved from all embarrassment.” 

“ Oh ! it is not that I care as far as regards myself, but 
what would people say of me?” 

“ Ah, I see ! ” replied Talvanne. “ You are afraid of the 
gallery ; you feel that you are before the public, and you 
are afraid of their opinion. You dread what they may 
think of you. There is a good deal of posing in your 
affair. I have always been convinced that if you material- 
ists were confined in a dark cell, all alone, removed from 
human eye, without hope of escape from death, you would 
fall on your knees like anybody else, and try to remember 
the prayers you have forgotten ! ” 

Rameau, who had listened in anxious silence thus far, 
now burst forth and heaped such abuse on Talvanne that 


36 Love and Marriage . 

the latter did not reappear for two days. The doctor was 
compelled to go to him. He entered as Talvanne was 
about to dine, seated himself at table without speaking, 
and then in the course of the evening, while passing the 
time in his friend’s cabinet, in the midst of a collection of 
skulls representing all the races of mankind, he confided 
to Talvanne the fact that the marriage engagement was 
broken off unless he yielded to the will of Conchita. 

“She is as headstrong, my friend, as the mules of her 
own country,” he remarked, with a bitterness of tone. 
“ She does not argue ; she does not reason. She simply 
says, ‘ I want to be married by the priest.’ And then she 
begins to cry. She will drive me mad.” 

“ Well, in that case I will take care of you. Love-lunacy 
is curable. Bran-baths, emollient diet, and a couple of 
hours’ promenade daily in a flower-garden. It is only an 
affair of a few months ; and the patient is better after it 
than before.” 

Rameau did not appear to have listened. He remained 
silent for some minutes, and then sadly remarked : 

“ Talvanne, she won’t yield. What is to be done ? ” 

“ Are you still attached to her ? ” 

“ More than to my life itself ! ” 

“A man like you ! And what do you expect to find in her ?” 
Rameau’s face lit up as he replied : 

“ Something I do not know — happiness ! ” 

Talvanne mused a moment and replied : 

“ Old fellow, resistance is useless. Since you dread the 
furor that your apparent apostasy would cause — for, on 
my word, your atheism is a religion, also, in the name of 
which you proscribe all others — well, arrange it by submit- 
ting to a religious marriage in Spain. Cross the frontier. 
Nothing remarkable in that. Your wife is a native of 
Navarre. And who will know what you will do, once you 
are at the other side of the Pyrenees ? ” 

“You are right,” exclaimed Rameau, suddenly rising. 
“ Your expedient has saved me.” 


The Link Broken . 


37 


Madame Etchevarray, greatly disturbed at the turn 
things had taken, and desirous of securing such an unex- 
pected catch for her daughter, meantime reasoned with 
Conchita. The latter accepted as a victory this semi-sur- 
render of Rameau, and becoming once more as sweet and 
charming as ever, she no longer marred the joy of her 
fiance. The mother, daughter, and the future son-in-law 
set out for Biarritz, from whence they proceeded to the 
native town of the Etchevarray family. Talvanne and 
Munzel, who acted as witnesses for their friend, rejoined 
them a few days later. And the week following, without 
any noise or difficulty, the marriage took place. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE LINK BROKEN. 

The return of Dr. Rameau was a triumphant one. Every- 
where he went he presented his wife with undisguised 
pride. He was now as anxious to mingle in society as he 
had been before to shun it. Conchita, to whom her hus- 
band’s celebrity attracted much attention, produced a 
great sensation, and was classed from the outset as one of 
the reigning beauties. She always appeared simple and 
retiring, wholly devoid of pretension, appearing to offer 
all her success as a homage to her husband. The dis- 
parity of age which existed between them had tempted 
certain young men to pay court to her. She received 
their adulations with perfect nonchalance, but never per- 
mitted herself to indulge in any coquetry. The aspirants t 
were promptly discouraged. The virtue of Conchita was 
admitted to be beyond all temptation. Talvanne, who had 
seen his friend change his mode of life not without appre- 
hension, now breathed more freely. He began to believe 
that Rameau would be happy, and to hope that he would 


The Link Broken . 


38 

be so himself. For every sentiment of the doctor had its 
counterpart in the heart of Talvanne. 

After the first month of his married life, Rameau con- 
cluded that the modest apartments of the Rue La Harpe 
were not in keeping with his dignity. He bought the 
mansion of Marshal Regnault de Saint-Jean d’Angely, at 
the corner of the Rue Saint-Dominique and the Avenue de 
Constantine, and furnished it in the most luxurious manner. 
Mme. Etchevarray came to live with him, together with 
the good Rosalie, and between the two women the house 
was the home of comfort and happiness. Rameau held a 
reception for his friends on Saturdays, and the £lite of 
Paris thronged his salons. The distinguished scientist had 
entered into, to him, a new existence. Each day brought 
added happiness. 

His home life was the complement of his public life. He 
now had some one to share the joys of his success. Be- 
tween his wife and his friends he knew what it was to be 
perfectly happy. He had nothing more to desire. Every 
evening Talvanne and Munzel dropped in at about nine 
o’clock, and the happy salon resounded with music and 
good cheer until midnight. Munzel soon found that Con- 
chita had a sweet and musical voice. He accompanied her 
on the piano, while she sang the most popular of Spanish 
airs with a sweetness unsurpassed. After she would finish, 
the sentimental German would remain at the piano and 
interpret some beautiful reverie of Schubert. The silence 
that would follow would be religious in its delightful so- 
lemnity. Often Conchita would sit, with tears in her eyes, 
in the corner of the salon, absorbed in musical ecstasy. 

Usually, she was cold and formal toward Munzel. She 
did not make the least freedom with him, while she laughed 
and joked with Talvanne with all the innocent delight of 
a school-girl. She always addressed Munzel as “ Mister.” 
With the alienist she always used “ Talvanne,” like her 
husband. Rameau was not slow to mark this distinction, 
and referred to it when talking to Conchita. The young 


The Link Broken . 


39 


woman replied that the cold and serious nature of the art- 
ist did not respond to her own like that of the physician ; 
that, in a word, she entertained the greatest esteem and 
friendship for Munzel, but did not feel toward him the un- 
reserved open-heartedness she did for Talvanne. Senti- 
mentality of this nature is not generated ; you either feel 
it, or you do not. That’s all. 

Talvanne, who had always retained, unconsciously per- 
haps, a leaven of jealousy in his heart, took a secret joy in 
being thus favored by Conch ita. The doctor, however, 
who defended Munzel’s coldness and formality with Con- 
chita, ended by having to defend himself for the same 
reason. 

Seeing herself an undisputed sovereign, with her husband 
at her feet, only having to suggest her wishes to see them 
realized, the young wife grew so emboldened as to dream 
of modifying the ideas that had caused her first tifts with 
her husband. She intended to attack the stronghold of 
his materialism, to overthrow that bastile of his iniquity, 
and to turn to the glory of heaven that profound adoration 
which her husband entertained toward herself. 

She confided her intention to her mother. But the old 
lady was not disposed to encourage her. Full of gratitude 
to Rameau, whose disinterestedness and goodness she ad- 
mired, Mme. Etchevarray silenced her religious scruples 
when it was a question of apologizing for her son-in-law. 
She had a special indulgence for him, and her narrowness 
of mind was corrected by her broadness of heart. Then 
Conchita, with the pettishness of a spoiled child, indulged 
in bitter comments on the indignity of preventing her from 
trying to save him who shared her life and her love. 

“ To remain impassive and indifferent,” she used to ex- 
claim, “ would be to share in the complicity. I would 
thus become as guilty as himself. For he is guilty, mother ; 
you know he is, or rather you shut your eyes to the fact.” 

“ My child, your husband is perfection itself, and if he 
be not worthy of canonization there are no saints. Don’t 


40 


The Link Broken . 


you see that different men can be agreeable to God in their 
different ways : one way is to faithfully observe His com- 
mandments and do as He ordains ; the other to devote 
oneself passionately to the welfare of His creatures, and to 
practice good works instead of talking of creeds. To be 
sure, it is all the better to be virtuous and to practice good 
works at the same time, but we must not be too exacting, 
and when we meet a man who is virtuous only, it is the 
part of wisdom to be satisfied.” 

“ But, mother, he doesn’t believe in anything.” 

“ Well, you believe enough for both, so God can strike 
the balance.” 

But this pleasantry, with which Mme. Etchevarray ac- 
cepted the moral condition of Rameau, did not commend 
itself to Conchita. She remained silent, sad, downcast, 
haunted by the idea that the unbelief of her husband would 
surely bring down some misfortune on them. Like those 
lofty hills that attract the lightning, this pinnacle of 
human pride, that braved the Creator, would be rent by 
the thunderbolts of God. And so, she persistently sought 
to win from Rameau a first concession, which would be the 
visible sign of his ultimate surrender. She devoted her- 
self passionately to this object with all the zeal of a mis- 
sionary. She worked, she prayed, she felt herself ready to 
make any sacrifice to succeed. 

One of the means she adopted was coquetry. She sought 
to stimulate the love of her husband — to make his one de- 
sire in life the possession of her heart. She was, by turns, 
capricious, sad, unreasonable, and suddenly joyous. Her 
fanciful and charming character was full of irresistible at- 
tractions for Rameau. He adored this lovely girl, whose 
caprices lent to the leisure hours of his laborious life an 
unforeseen and continual delight. He submitted to the 
tyranny of this woman he so loved, not only with compla- 
cency but with rapture. He yielded to her every wish, even 
the most unreasonable, and showed that he was willing to 
make any sacrifice to win from her a smile of love. 


The Link Broken . 


41 


It was spring-time, and the month of May came on in all 
its flowery beauty. The nights were soft and pleasant, the 
skies were blue and serene, and the budding verdure was 
grateful to the senses. One evening, after the doctor and 
Conchita had dined alone, she asked him to go out for a 
walk. They started, arm in arm, like a pair of lovers, 
walking slowly along the unfrequented esplanade of the 
Invalides. They came to the quay, crossed the bridge De 
la Concorde, and soon found themselves in the Parisian 
throng that were moving toward the Champs-Elysees. In 
the groves, lit up with their opalescent lamps, the bands 
were playing merrily. In the distance, near the Palais de 
l’lndustrie, music blared from a caf6 concert. The car- 
riages rolled rapidly by along the avenue, bearing the anx- 
ious crowd to the refreshing odors of the Bois. For a mo- 
ment Conchita and Rameau remained motionless, gazing 
at this tide of human life, their ears filled with the tumult 
of the joyous throng. Then they slowly continued their 
promenade toward the heart of the city, attracted by the 
glowing lights in the distance. 

They crossed the Rue Royale, she leaning on the arm of 
her husband, caressing, as if given up to love alone; he re- 
joicing in the pleasure of the possession of this adorable 
woman in all the bloom of her youth and beauty. They 
reached the Place de la Madeleine, dark in the midst of 
the light of the boulevards, with its lofty, sombre church, 
lifting its massive Grecian architecture into the darkness 
overhead. They proceeded as far as the iron railing, and 
there, through the open door, they saw the altar beaming 
with lights and decorated with flowers. 

“ It is the month of Mary,” murmured Conchita. 

And, stopping before the steps, her eyes fixed on the 
beauty of the sacred scene, she stood wrapped in contem- 
plation, as if attracted by an irresistible force. 

'* How beautiful ! ” she sighed. 

And her arm pressed her husband’s more caressingly; 
while he, suspecting no design, waited for her to continue 


42 


The Link Broken . 


their walk. Conchita, with slower step, continued on her 
way, but, instead of following the boulevard, she turned 
along the railing, in the sombre solitude of the spot, seized 
with a sudden desire which she could not express, but 
which she overpoweringly felt. On reaching one of the 
side doors, she led her husband past the railing, and, after 
a few steps, they found themselves at the entrance. 

“ Where are we going ?” asked Rameau, somewhat sur- 
prised, softly resisting his wife’s movement. 

“ Let us go in,” she whispered, in her winning voice. 
“ Will you?” 

And, as she spoke, she adroitly turned on him the full 
battery of her melting glance. 

“ See,” she resumed, pressing his arm more closely, “ the 
church is dark and empty. Who will know it ? ” 

He was taken aback somewhat, but, after a pause, smil- 
ingly answered: 

“ I, my dear.” 

“Well, can’t you be a little indulgent toward yourself ?” 

“We must be indulgent toward others and severe toward 
ourselves.” 

“ Oh ! don’t begin to preach your philosophy to me now; 
be simple. That is when I love you most; and, then, I do 
love you so dearly ! Do you think you will be lost for en- 
tering a church with your wife? It is the month of Mary, 
and throngs come here for no other purpose than to listen 
to the music and admire the pomp of the worship.” 

“ It is this pomp I disapprove of, and that is what repels 
me.” 

“ Then sacrifice your repugnance, just for once, to please 

__ _ 99 

me. 

“ Conchita, go alone, I beg of you ; I will wait for you 
here, with pleasure, no matter how long you stay.” 

She looked up at him, and her eyes flashed as she said : 
“ It is never good to say to a young woman, ‘ Go alone ! ’ ” 

His old frown darkened his face for an instant, and he 
answered softly : 


The Link Broken . 


43 


“ Conchita, do not trifle with my love.” 

“ Isn’t it you who are trifling with mine ? ” 

She changed her tone, and her momentary harshness was 
turned into caressing sweetness. She again hung on the 
arm of her husband, and for a time, in the sombre shade 
of the church, beneath the calm, serene sky, they stood 
clinging to one another — he feeling the young heart of her 
whom he adored beating against his own, she bent on a 
supreme effort to overcome his proud resistance. She 
stood on her tiptoes and whispered into his ear in her 
softest tone : 

“ Remember, you once entered a church with me, and 
in full daylight at that, and that you bent your knee and 
bowed your head. Did any harm come to you by it ? 
You won your wife that day, poor though she was, and 
you now know how devoted she is to you. Will you not 
now grant her this one favor — and it is such a small one ? ” 

Rameau gazed into the eyes of Conchita, that sparkled 
like the stars overhead. A ray of love passed over his 
face, and bending down, as if to drink in her charms, an- 
swered : 

“ I will ! Let us go in.” 

Forgetful of the spot she put her arms around his neck 
and kissed him with ecstatic rapture. And then, with a 
bitterness of feeling, — for a proud and puissant mind like 
his could not repudiate its principles without a struggle, — 
he said to himself, “ I am now paying for the first step I 
took in the path of apostasy. And if I do not resist, to 
what length will she not lead me ? ” 

Led on by Conchita, he entered one of the aisles that 
was almost empty, the mass of the worshippers filling the 
nave. The perfume of the flowers sweetened the atmos- 
phere, and a solemn silence prevailed. The services had 
just begun. Conchita, silent and collected, leading her 
husband, proceeded until she came to the Virgin’s altar, 
resplendent with lights and laden with flowers. Instinct- 
ively the atheist resisted the pressure that urged him for- 


44 


The Link Broken . 


ward in the full glow of the lights, and he stopped short 
in a dark side-aisle. Smiling, her pretty face lit up with 
triumph, Conchita knelt down, and, after a short prayer, 
rose and remained standing beside her husband. 

After a harmonious prelude on the organ, sweet young 
voices rose, fresh and clear, like the voice of angels ; then 
stronger voices joined in, to which were added the softer 
voices of women, all commingling like a universal choir 
celebrating the glory of the Most High. Conchita, burn- 
ing with the desire of converting her husband, felt her 
heart soften and melt as if flooded with Divine grace. 
She felt an almost heavenly joy. Enraptured with her 
own faith, intoxicated by the delicious perfume of the 
dying flowers, exalted by the music and singing, she was 
passionately intent on bending her husband’s will in un- 
reasoning submission. She believed him prepared for the 
reception of the gift of faith by the external seductions of 
a worship charming to the senses ; and pointing to a marble 
statue of the Virgin holding the infant Saviour in her 
arms, smiling and beautiful, she said : 

“ I am going to pray that we may be given a babe as 
sweet and beautiful as that which she holds in her arms. 
Join in my prayer, simply by bending your knee, and I am 
sure my prayer will be heard.” 

Rameau smiled on detecting the snare ; a child, a living 
proof of his love for the woman who was his sole joy, 
would, indeed, be the sum of all his happiness, and she 
took advantage of this, his dearest desire, to lead him to 
an act of moral weakness which in his eyes would be dis- 
honorable. He looked at his wife, not in anger, indeed, 
but with profound melancholy. Even when she caused 
him pain or annoyance, he found an excuse for her. Con- 
chita, seeing him remain silent and indifferent, bent over 
in a last determined effort: 

“ It is such a little thing. I only ask you to bow your 
head, to join with me so that our common hope may mingle 
in one desire and ascend in one sole thought to heaven. 


The Link Broken . 


45 

Do it, I beg of you, and I will love you all the more, if 
such is possible, and do anything for your sake.” 

He shook his head and answered : 

“ I cannot do what you ask of me, Conchita ; I am an 
unbeliever. If the Divinity to whom you wish me to sub- 
mit exists, he cannot receive favorably an act of faith that 
is not dictated by conscience ; if he does not exist, to 
what a ridiculous and vain comedy you would subject 
me!” 

He was about to continue, but his wife, horrified at such 
blasphemy in the very house of God, placed her little 
white hand over his lips. She withdrew it hastily ; it 
seemed to her as if a Satanic fire had passed into her veins 
from such contact with impiety. But now, having broken 
down the bank that restrained the flood of his protest, he 
could no longer repress it. He took his wife’s arm, and, 
leading her apart to a dark and secluded spot of the great 
building, bade her sit down ; and there, while the organ 
pealed and the voices resounded, he in turn undertook to 
enlighten, as he thought, that darkened but pious mind 
that he felt was on the verge of turning away from him. 

“ Conchita, do not condemn me, I implore you, without 
having heard me, at least. I feel that at this moment I 
cause you apprehension, but I wish at the same time to 
assure you, to convince you, that I am neither wicked nor 
unjust. If a word sufficed to satisfy you, I would utter it 
unhesitatingly. You know that I yielded to you on one 
occasion ; you see that this evening again I consented to 
follow you, so then judge me by my past complaisance and 
not by my present refusal. What good would a meaning- 
less consent on my part be for you ? Is that what you de- 
sire ? Oh, I beg of you not to turn away from me ! Do 
not place that God, who you say is all goodness and love, 
between your heart and mine. You love Him passion- 
ately, but I love you more passionately still. You pray to 
Him, but I adore you, and my very existence is bound up 
in your grace and beauty. You are the only deity I can 


The Link Broken . 


46 

worship. Can you reproach me when I prostrate myself 
before you as at the feet of a charming divinity ? Can 
you regard it as a crime ? ” 

“ Your language is perverting,” murmured Conchita in 
a low voice. “ You substitute a creature for the Creator. 
Your thoughts and words are pagan. You not only do 
not wish to reform yourself, but you try to ruin me.” 

“ I ?” said Rameau, evidently hurt in his feelings — “ I to 
try to break down your faith ! Oh, no ! I have all my 
life fought for liberty of conscience. Do you think I 
could abandon my conviction to hurt the feelings of my own 
wife that I love as I love my heart ? If you wish to pray, 
my dear Conchita, pray for your mother and me. I would 
give anything to have the faith you have. But faith is a 
gift of God, as you say. Happy those who have it ! May 
God vouchsafe it to me ! ” 

Then the wife, with tearful eyes, begged : “ Try and be- 
lieve ; lift your thoughts to God and you will be heard.” 

“ Heaven is empty, Conchita. Every people has its own 
gods, but their fragile idols are but the divination of hu- 
man passions. Peoples have passed away, different forms 
of worship have succeeded one another, the gods have 
changed — but heaven is still empty ! ” 

The great scientist arose, shrugged his huge shoulders, 
shook his lion-like head, as if banishing importunate 
thoughts, and said : 

“ Darling, let us not talk on that subject any further. It 
only causes me pain, and, what I feel more, it hurts you. 
You cannot convert me, and certainly I shall never try to 
influence you, for I would regard it as a crime to deprive 
you of the faith that sustains and comforts you. Forgive 
me for talking to you with such frankness, but believe me 
it is because I love you with all my soul.” 

“With all your soul?” replied Conchita, with a tinge of 
sarcasm. “ Have you really got a soul ?” 

“You are right, my dear,” answered Rameau, with a 
smile. “ See how superstition even corrupts language. I 


The Link Broken . 


47 


don’t know that I have got a soul, but I do know I have a 
heart, and that heart is entirely yours." 

He seized his wife’s hand, and, lovingly pressing it, said : 

“At all events, if a mortal creature ever possessed a 
soul, that creature is you, Conchita, for you are to me alto- 
gether above humanity." 

She made no answer. They both walked out slowly, 
leaving behind them the pompous ceremonies which were 
so impressive for Conchita. The voices of the choir grew 
faint in the distance, the lights grew less, the perfume of 
the fading flowers vanished, and the rushing world again 
broke on the sight. They descended the steps, passed the 
railing, and, in the softness of that spring-time evening, 
Rameau sought to impress his own ideas on his wife. But 
Conchita was cold and indifferent. His hope of capturing 
her affections had failed. She did not seem to care any 
longer about the subject on which she had before set her 
heart. She succumbed, woman-like, feeling her defeat, 
but did not suspect that at the moment there entered into 
her heart an unconscious hatred against him who had de- 
prived her of the joy of her dreamed-of triumph. 

From this day forward a great change took place in the 
mind of Conchita. The gratitude she entertained for Ra- 
meau disappeared ; the tender admiration that she felt for 
her illustrious husband grew weak ; and finally love was 
smothered in the horror inspired by incorrigible atheism. 
He seemed to her a different man. His magnificent but 
unconventional — rude, if you may — traits took on the sem- 
blance of Satanic pride. With his forehead furrowed by 
thought and study, Rameau appeared to her harsh as the 
destroying angel. She discovered, in the darkness of 
his heavy eyebrows that marked his splendid face, the 
awful signs of an infernal perversity. She noted the cyn- 
icism of his language, and his apparent contempt of hu- 
manity. 

Rameau, whom she had hitherto not only loved as a hus- 
band, but revered as a father, was to her suddenly trans- 


48 


The Link Broken . 


formed into a menacing and redoubtable being. She 
could not look at him without feeling weary, and felt in 
his presence that patient restlessness so peculiar to women. 
She did not try to bend him or influence him any more. 
Everything he said and did she regarded as right — as the 
will of a being superior to herself — as something to be 
listened to and obeyed. She no longer indulged in the 
little coquettish arts of love. Her husband acted with 
the most perfect tact, and the nobleness of his genius lent 
grandeur to all his actions. 

She made it a point never to mention the word “ re- 
ligion ” in presence of her husband. She considered it a 
profanation, a sin against heaven. Still, she had such a 
leaven of bitterness in her heart that she could not re- 
strain herself from talking one evening to Talvanne and 
Munzel of the incredulity of their friend. It was in sum- 
mer-time, in the afternoon ; they were all in the salon, 
instead of being in the garden, as usual. A delicious 
freshness came in through the windows — all the joys of 
spring were in the air. In the darkness Madame Etche- 
varray, Munzel, Talvanne, and Conchita were seated to- 
gether. The two men smoked in silence, and Rameau 
passed into his study to write a letter. 

In a moment Conchita brusquely said, as if she had 
been thinking of it for a time : 

“You, Talvanne, and Mr. Munzel — you are both believ- 
ers ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! ” the alienist replied. “ I have been brought 
up by my mother, and you know the great influence of 
woman in the matter of religion.” 

“ Ah ! ” interrupted Conchita, in a tone of raillery that 
caused the two men to look at one another with surprise. 
And she added pettishly, “ Don’t ever pay any attention 
to women in the matter of religion.” 

Talvanne, who was keen as he was kind, suspected the 
possibility of a dangerous argument, and wished to avoid 
it. And he added: 


The Link Broken . 


49 


“ As to Munzel, he is a German, and therefore somewhat 
mystic ; the son of a choir-master, consequently impreg- 
nated with sacred music ; blonde, with blue eyes, hence 
given to reverie. If he was not a believer, under present 
conditions, then he would not be human. And, besides, 
his life was passed in painting sacred pictures for churches.” 

“ Do you go to church on Sunday ? ” asked Mme. Etche- 
varray. 

“ I ? Never,” answered Talvanne. 

“You are, then, no more religious than the doctor him- 
self.” 

“ The doctor, dear madame, has a religion of his own — 
the religion of Nature. And he is more devoted to that 
religion than I am to mine. He communes daily with Na- 
ture, and his prayer is: ‘Nature, give me the power of 
penetrating your secrets, so that I may help my fellow- 
man, and lessen his sufferings.’ ” 

“ My son-in-law is a good man — I know it,” replied 
madame. “ And, remember, it is not the most deserving 
that are rewarded.” 

“ You are right, madame,” replied Munzel, in a soft voice; 
“and it is certain that Talvanne and I put together do not 
equal the doctor. We must take into account the trend 
of certain minds, and not ask of those who penetrate the 
spheres, to crawl on the ground, and bend themselves to 
the rule of universal ignorance. All great innovators have 
been misunderstood. Galileo was imprisoned. So was 
Columbus, because the discovery of a new world was 
deemed a heresy. All the great philosophers, all the illus- 
trious savants have been persecuted, because they were 
ahead of their times. Our friend is so far ahead of those 
around him that we ought to abstain, respectfully, from 
criticising him. We may follow him, apprehensive, no 
doubt, but who of us can say that he is wrong? If he is 
deceived, who of us can be sure ? ” 

“ I am sure,” replied Conchita, in a trembling voice. 
« The first duty of man is to obey his Creator, his Master, 


50 


The Link Broken . 


his God ! If he rebels against the Supreme law, woe to 
him, and to those around him ! ” 

This passionate outburst drew forth no response. Tal- 
vanne turned aside, and pretended to hear nothing. 

“ Well,” broke in Mme. Etchevarray, after a few sec- 
onds, “ you lose your balance, you grow excited, and all 
for what ? ” 

“ I am the guilty one,” replied Munzel. “ I have unin- 
tentionally led the conversation into a controversial chan- 
nel. I must now try to re-establish harmony." 

He sat down before the harmonium, which was a sort of 
pendant to the piano, and played a sweet but dreamy air. 
The pure melody he evoked broke into the silence with a 
delicious charm. 

“ What is that ? ” asked Talvanne. 

It was a motet from Porpora, Handel's great rival. 

He continued to play, but more softly, letting the sound 
fall till it became a mere accompaniment to his words. 

“ I was twenty years of age," he remarked, “ when I 
heard that air for the first time. It was in the Cathedral 
of Cologne. One Sunday I entered the great edifice about 
noon, and I was struck by the light that streamed in 
through the colored windows. The altar-bell rang for the 
Elevation, every head was bowed, and the silence was sol- 
emnly profound. The melody of that exquisite air burst 
forth, and I was enraptured. I have never forgotten it 
since, and I always play it with renewed pleasure." 

“ It’s very nice," Conchita broke in, in a changed tone. 

At the same moment Dr. Rameau entered the salon, fol- 
lowed by the servant holding a light, and Talvanne saw 
that the young wife was in tears. The conversation for the 
rest of the night passed off without incident. 

Talvanne, however, retained an unfavorable recollection 
of Conchita’s temper, which he regarded as the beginning 
of defiance. He was a keen observer by nature and by 
profession. He now took it upon himself to study the 
young wife’s character, and an infinity of petty details that 


The Link Broken . 


5i 


theretofore had passed unnoticed, now struck him as most 
strange. Conchita, who had hitherto been so active, now 
did not stir a hand, and did not even read to occupy her 
time. She remained passive, like a beautiful odalisque. 
When one entered the parlor, she had to be spoken to be- 
fore she appeared to notice one’s presence. What was her 
absorbing thought ? 

She often went out, during the day, alone, at almost 
regular hours, and, when asked where she had been, she 
answered, with the quiet assurance of a woman whose con- 
duct is above suspicion: 

“ I was out for a walk.” 

Talvanne, who took an added interest in her since she 
had grown so sad and moody, followed her. She led him 
a long walk through Paris — to the Church of the Made- 
leine. She went up the steps and entered. Talvanne, 
surprised, called a cab and drove to his hospital in the 
Rue Vincennes. He followed her for several days, and 
each time she led him the same walk — to the Church of 
the Madeleine. 

Talvanne, surprised at the regularity of this pilgrimage, 
and too much of a Parisian not to suspect some mystery 
under this exact devotion, followed Conchita, one day, 
into the church. She walked up along the aisle, turned to 
one side, and was lost to view. He followed, and saw her 
kneeling in the chapel of the Virgin, before the statue of 
the infant Saviour. Prostrated, in the intensity of her 
piety, she remained for a time motionless. After a quarter 
of an hour she rose, and returned home. 

The alienist now breathed freely ; he had suspected an 
adventure, and was agreeably undeceived. Still he re- 
doubled his surveillance, but always only to find that the 
church was the only object of the young woman’s devotion. 
It was interesting to know where Conchita went every day, 
but it was still more interesting to know why she went. 

One evening Talvanne, who was burning with curiosity, 
asked with an indifferent air : 


52 


The Link Broken . 


“ I passed you twice this week, as you came out from the 
Church of the Madeleine. It is rather a long distance to 
go to church, is it not?” 

She was a little startled at the suddenness of the question, 
and the doctor, who was seated at the other end of the 
room reading a pamphlet, raised his eyes and cast a dis- 
quiet glance on his friend. Meantime Conchita, with flash- 
ing eyes and blushing face, answered abruptly : 

“ That is the church I want to pray in. It is there I like 
to go, in the hope of warding off evil from us.” 

“ Warding off evil ?” began Talvanne. But he had not 
time to finish. The doctor rose, flung the pamphlet on the 
table, and brusquely said : 

“ Leave Conchita alone. She does what she likes, and 
it is nobody’s business but her own.” 

“ Oh ! that’s certain,” responded the poor alienist, some- 
what staggered. “ But I meant no offence by my remark.” 

“ Well, let us talk of something else.” 

And the subject was changed. But Conchita remained 
sullen and absorbed, casting from time to time an uneasy 
glance at her husband. 

What had come between them ? Talvanne hoped to find 
out, but could not. 

Another besides himself had remarked the mental strug- 
gle of the young wife. It was Munzel. The German, after 
having tranquilly received Conchita’s coldness of manner, 
now seemed to set about dissipating her prejudices. He 
shook off his phlegmatic indolence and spent money with 
unusual extravagance. Rameau frequently chaffed him on 
the subject, saying : 

“ I say, Talvanne, I have a suspicion that Frantz is court- 
ing my wife. You know I have no time to watch them, so 
I charge you w'ith the business.” 

Talvanne answered with more seriousness than the occa- 
sion demanded : 

“ You can rely on me.” 

There was no further reference made to the matter. 


The Link Broken . 


53 


But the alienist took his mission seriously, and he not only 
began to keep a watch over the young wife, but also to 
study the painter. His former dislike toward him returned 
at the idea of Conchita favoring Munzel. Certainly Tal- 
vanne’s intentions were pure and honorable, but he could 
not bear that another should be preferred to himself. He 
entertained more jealousy than the husband himself. He 
considered himself entitled to a monopoly of her friend- 
ship as well as to that of her husband. 

But he was soon reassured. Conchita paid not the 
slightest attention to Munzel. Her mother, who had been 
ill for some time, engaged all her care. Broken down by 
the ills of life, she was unable to leave her room. Her 
son-in-law tended her with the greatest affection and assi- 
duity. But, as Rameau remarked, the machine would no 
longer work, unless certain wheels were changed — the heart 
for one. Despite the corfidence that Conchita had in her 
husband’s infallible skill, she disliked seeing him attending 
to her mother, or coming in any contact with her. On the 
contrary, she often led Talvanne to the sick-room and asked 
his advice. He invariably refused, saying : 

“You know I am not a physician ; I am simply a maniac 
taking care of other maniacs ; that’s all.” 

“ But your presence alone,” urged Conchita, “ does mo- 
ther good”; and she added, after a pause, “You are a 
Christian, a believer, and that alone neutralizes evil influ- 
ences.” 

Talvanne now began to understand, and the matter 
seemed to him serious. Evidently an estrangement had 
taken place between Conchita and Rameau, the beginning 
of which was the doctor’s unbelief. The young wife had, 
perhaps, been again endeavoring to convert him. Her 
Spanish fanaticism, coming in contact with the harsh infi- 
delity of her husband, might lead to regrettable conse- 
quences. It was plain that Conchita held the doctor re- 
sponsible for her mother’s illness. She regarded it as a 
chastisement of God, as a mark of His wrath for her living 


54 


The Link Broken . 


with an atheist, a punishment for her laxity in leading him 
into the path of virtue. 

Talvanne imagined the scenes that had transpired be- 
tween the young wife and her husband. He had too much 
respect for the intellectual calm of his friend to speak to 
him concerning his moral condition. He saw no advantage 
in interfering in the matter at all. The task of endeavor- 
ing to reconcile religion and infidelity is subject to diffi- 
culty. If he would defend his friend, he ran the risk of 
displeasing Conchita. And his pleasant position in that 
household, of which he himself was virtually a member, 
might be compromised. Selfishness alone dictated absten- 
tion. And nevertheless a little more broadness of view 
would have shown him that, at that trying hour, he could 
have brought encouragement and relief to Conchita by 
pursuing a bolder course. And how much misfortune and 
suffering would have been spared to those whom he sin- 
cerely loved. 

One morning, on arriving at Rameau’s house, he ob- 
served that the faces of the servants wore a sad and som- 
bre expression. He entered the doctor’s room, and found 
him writing at his desk. 

“ What is the matter ? ” he asked ; “ everybody around 
seems to have lost their heads.” 

Rameau gravely answered : 

“ Madame Etchevarray died this morning.” 

After a moment’s silence, Talvanne replied : 

“ You have suffered a grievous loss. Madame esteemed 
you greatly. She was a good woman. But how came she 
to go so suddenly? She seemed to be comparatively well 
yesterday.” 

“Yes, the lamp always flickers brightly before going out. 
She had a bad turn during the night ; I was called, but 
could do nothing. You know we are not masters of life.” 

“And your wife?” questioned Talvanne anxiously. 

“ She is quite prostrated. You will do me a favor by 
going to see her ; you may, perhaps, afford her some relief.” 


The Link Broken. 


55 


Talvanne hastened to her apartment, and entered with- 
out knocking. The blinds were drawn, and the room was 
almost dark. Conchita rose as he entered and said : 

“ You see the blow has come at last.” 

“ Come,” she continued ; “ you loved her in life, and she 
loved you. See, how happy she looks — as if she were only 
sleeping.” 

The body lay surrounded by flowers, a crucifix on the 
bosom, while a Sister of Charity sat at the foot of the bed, 
reading her prayer-book. 

Conchita knelt kown, kissed the hand of her mother, 
then rose and said : 

“ I have had the last sacraments administered to her. 
She recovered consciousness shortly before death, and died 
in a state of grace. She is now at rest with God ; she 
protects, defends me, and with the assistance of her prayers 
I am sure we will all be happy forever.” 

Talvanne listened, but made no reply. He remembered 
that he had once seen his own mother stretched on the bed 
of death. A flood of painful recollections came back on 
him ; he bent down and made the sign of the cross. In 
presence of this simple act of piety, performed by this 
grave and serious man, Conchita felt her heart expand. 
And then taking Talvanne by the hand, and looking as if 
another trouble besides the death of her mother oppressed 
her, she exclaimed, in a tone of despair : 

“Ah! if he would only pray with me and believe with 
me, how I could love him ! ” 


56 


The Fatal Portrait . 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE FATAL PORTRAIT. 

Talvanne was unquestionably an eminent alienist, for 
he saved Conchita from losing her mind. He talked in a 
way to produce mental calm, and he had the satisfaction 
of knowing that he was the only one who could bring 
about this desired result. Rameau shook his hand with an 
effusive warmth that he had not exhibited in twenty years. 
Conchita, whose countenance was as sombre as the mourn- 
ing garb she wore, had wrapped herself up in her melan- 
choly solitude, and seemed determined to wholly seclude 
herself from the world. Munzel, received with stiff for- 
mality, in daytime, and entirely deprived of his joyous 
evenings, manifested a singular uneasiness. He grew 
whimsical and restless, he who had been theretofore so 
calm and unemotional. He surprised Talvanne by his in- 
explicable outbursts of temper. He railed against life and 
cursed his destiny. 

And surely he had no right to do so, for if painter ever 
was favorably treated by fortune, it was he. Drawn into 
the brilliant orbit of the great scientist, he had no trouble 
in gaining acquaintance with the most renowned artists 
and influential personages. Although quite young, he had 
already received orders that had brought him in a lucra- 
tive remuneration. His reputation spread rapidly, and in 
his thirty-eighth year he found himself at the height of 
fame and success. It was now so different from the time 
when his aged father was on the threshold of the prison 
for the matter of a fine of a few thousand florins. One of 
Frantz’s pictures now brought him thirty thousand francs 
at least, while it required special influence to have a por- 
trait painted by him. He had grown so exclusive as to 
paint only such faces as pleased him. 

He had often begged of Conchita to sit for her portrait. 
She steadfastly refused. She had always an excellent pre- 


The Fatal Portrait . 


5 7 


text ; her duties did not give her the time, or she dreaded 
the tediousness or number of the sittings. Finally, her 
mother was taken ill. Munzel took advantage of Con- 
chita’s period of mourning, of her trouble, of the dull 
ennui of her existence to press his request. 

“You have nothing to occupy your time now; it will 
only help to kill time,” he said. “ You are troubled, and I 
shall respect your trouble. You will not speak, and I shall 
remain silent. In short, I subscribe in advance to all your 
conditions ; I yield to all your demands.” 

Conchita, with a sort of impetuous obstinacy, replied : 
“ No ! ” She no longer gave any reason or pretext ; she re- 
fused absolutely, and when her husband mildly reproached 
her for her lack of amiability, and for not availing herself 
of the painter’s proffer, she lost her temper and surprised 
him by the asperity of her refusal. On one occasion she 
was so snappish toward Munzel that he abruptly rose and 
declared that as his presence caused such annoyance, and 
led to such irritating remarks, he would return to the 
house no more. And, despite Rameau’s apologies, despite 
his kindly remonstrances, he kept his word. And, to make 
assurance doubly sure, he left Paris and went home to his 
family. 

He remained away for four months. His name was no 
longer mentioned, and Talvanne was supremely happy, 
when one morning, after breakfast, there arrived by the 
express a large box from Germany, addressed to Madame 
Rameau. The box did not attract any special attention, 
but when opened revealed a beautifully executed portrait 
of Mme. Etchevarray. The lady was represented in her 
large chair, as was her habit, near the table, knitting with 
her roll of yarn in her lap. The face was of such a perfect 
resemblance that Conchita and Rameau looked at it in 
mute surprise. They remained for a few moments mo- 
tionless before this resurrection of the departed one, 
charmed by the art displayed in this masterpiece. Con- 
chita had the picture hung up in her room, and it seemed 


58 


The Fatal Portrait. 


to her that she whose presence she missed from morning 
till night in the now lonesome mansion was again restored 
to life. 

A few days afterward, Frantz returned to Paris, and his 
first visit was to his friends of the Rue Saint-Dominique. 

How could Conchita show her gratitude to the painter, 
if not by granting him the request she had hitherto so 
persistently refused ? Did not the portrait of the mother 
entitle him to the right of painting that of the daughter? 
She herself asked to sit, and the melancholy countenance 
of Munzel lit up with a ray of delight. Arrangements 
were at once made, and, for the first time, Conchita crossed 
the threshold of Munzel’s studio. Rameau, delighted on see- 
ing harmony re-established, accompanied his wife himself, 
selected the pose, and accessories, and observed with 
pleasure the first sketch on the canvas. Then, engaged by 
his occupations, he ceased to attend the sittings. 

Munzel and Conchita were thus brought together for 
many long hours at a time. It was near the close of win- 
ter, and the evenings were growing long. The doctor 
often, in coming for Conchita, found her and the painter 
awaiting him. Through the open window a last ray of 
light streamed in, throwing a sparkling scintillation on a 
shield on the wall. The dying flowers in their crystal vases 
spread a languid odor around. Conchita, reclining on a 
sofa, in the gathering darkness, was listening to Munzel as 
he played on the piano a waltz from Strauss or a nocturne 
from Chopin. The young wife and the painter w’ould then 
return with Rameau to the Rue Saint-Dominique. Most 
of the time Talvanne would drop in also, and the evenings 
were passed in happy enjoyment. 

Since the arrival of Munzel, however, the alienist was 
chagrined, and took no pains to conceal it. Rameau, who 
was accustomed to these peculiarities of character, did not 
regard them seriously, and even took advantage of them 
to fling at his friend some of his keenest epigrams. But 
Talvanne, usually so prompt at repartee, let all the doc- 


The Fatal Portrait. 


59 


tor’s shafts fall without once returning them, and contin- 
ued cold and sullen. He made it a point especially never 
to speak of the portrait. From the very first he was un- 
favorably impressed by the nature of the circumstances 
that brought Conchita and Munzel together. His suspi- 
cious mind had already divined evil consequences from 
that familiarity which was necessarily to spring up be- 
tween the painter and his subject. He did not speak of it 
at first, but he could not always remain silent, and one day, 
while alone with Rameau, he said to him abruptly: 

“ You have not attended the sittings for some days past ? ” 

“ No ; I have no time.” 

“ Then, who accompanies your wife ?” 

“ Nobody. She is big enough to go alone.” 

Talvanne frowned, and significantly replied: 

“ Big enough — yes. But old enough — no ! ” 

“ To go to Munzel’s studio ? ” 

“To shut herself up with any man for three hours every 
day ! ” 

“ You are foolish.” 

“ No, I am not foolish ; it is others who are so. And I 
assure you that nobody would think it becoming for a 
woman as young and as beautiful as your wife, to remain 
tlte-d-Ute for a whole month with a painter.” 

“ Who is my intimate friend ! ” 

“ But people will talk.” 

“ Who are the ‘ people ’ ? — you yourself, who areas gabby 
as a woman. Besides, I pay no attention to gossip. Ah ! 
you are still the same with your artful hostility. It is 
just like you to point to the susceptibility of other people 
in order to play an unfriendly trick on Munzel.” 

“ I ?” 

“ Yes, you. You have heard me say that the portrait 
was advancing beautifully, and that torments you. You 
would like it to turn out a failure, since it is not yourself 
that is painting it. You are selfish, envious. You have a 
vile nature at bottom.” 


6o 


The Fatal Portrait . 


At these words such a look of astonishment came over 
the face of Talvanne that Rameau could not restrain him- 
self from laughing outright. 

“ I know well what you say to me is inspired by friend- 
ship, but there are some people whose friendship renders 
them disagreeable. Just think for a moment of the sig- 
nificance of your language. Do you think I cannot trust 
my wife with you for a fortnight or so without sus- 
picion ? ” 

“ Ah, yes, indeed, at my age, and with my homely old 
face ! ” 

“ But your age and mine are the same.” 

“ Yes, but you are so fine-looking, while I am so insig- 
nificant.” 

“You flatter me,” answered the doctor, smiling. Then, 
in a more serious tone, he continued : “ However, perhaps 
you are right ; it is foolish to brave public opinion when 
there is no need for it. From to-morrow forth I will have 
Rosalie accompany Conchita.” 

Talvanne made no reply, but he evidently looked re- 
lieved. In the evening, when he came to the Rue Saint- 
Dominique, he was received by Madame Rameau with an 
unusual coolness. As he seemed surprised, she said to him 
with an ironic smile : 

“ I have reason to be pleased with you, indeed ; you 
treat me so kindly in talking to my husband about me.” 

“ I do not understand what you mean.” 

“Well, it is to you I am indebted, it seems, for not being 
permitted to go out any longer without a duenna.” 

“ Ah, that’s it ! ” replied Talvanne, smiling. 

“Yes, that is it. You are suspicious; you would have 
made a poor husband.” 

“And therefore I did not marry.” 

“And you believe in the efficacy of surveillance for the 
safety of wives ? ” 

“ Not at all. It is only for the sake of appearances I 
approve of it.” 


The Fatal Portrait . 


61 


" As far as I am concerned, you would have a weak 
guarantee in the person of Rosalie, who would go through 
fire and water for me, and would betray the whole world 
to serve me.” 

“ As for you, there is no other guarantee needed than 
yourself." 

“ Ah, it is pleasant to hear you talk like that ! But, 
believe me, confidence is the best method in dealing with 
women.” 

They were interrupted by the approach of Rameau, but 
Talvanne carried away a painful impression from that 
conversation. He had found Conchita nervous, peevish, 
discontented. A crisis was evidently at hand. The void 
caused in her existence by the death of her mother had 
not been filled up. She was now left alone, and between 
herself and her husband serious differences had sprung 
up. Slight as was his experience of women, the good 
Talvanne could not help reflecting seriously on the turn 
events had taken, and, devoted friend that he was, he 
feared that there were grave dangers at hand for the 
peace of him for whom he would have gladly sacrificed 
his own happiness. 

He saw with satisfaction, for the first time in his life, 
Munzel come regularly to the house every evening. Judg- 
ing others by himself, he said : “ So long as he can meet 
Rameau boldly, he can have nothing to reproach himself 
with. But if he could have read the hearts of the painter 
and Conchita, his confidence would have been sadly under- 
mined.” 

Since the young woman had begun to sit for her portrait 
Munzel was no longer the same. His melancholy had 
given way to a lively gaiety. He became joyous, unre- 
served, enthusiastic ; and Conchita saw with surprise re- 
vealed to her a Frantz wholly different from his former 
self. Seated in the glow of the large chandelier, she 
would listen for hours to the painter talking to her of his 
boyhood, his family, his sisters, and his aged father, the 


62 


The Fatal Portrait. 


Kapelmeister of Stuttgart, who now was engaged in com- 
posing a Mass for the King’s birthday. Again he would 
talk of his travels in Holland, Spain, and Italy ; of entire 
days passed in the contemplation of the masterpieces of 
art in the Amsterdam Museum and the Pitti Palace ; the 
delightful nightly promenades by gondola in the canals of 
Venice, in the tepid air, beneath the starry skies, to the 
sound of sweet music, and his long visits and rapt admira- 
tion among the splendors of St. Mark’s. 

With what eager attention she listened to the painter, as 
he described to her in his soft and pleasing voice, his face 
illumined as if by a mystic flame, the artistic sensations 
he experienced among the masterpieces of sacred pomp. 
She felt herself as if enveloped in the shade of the lofty 
marble pillars, bathed in the freshness that fell from the 
arches adorned with the sacred frescoes, penetrated with a 
sublime poesy which emanated from these artistic marvels, 
above which eternally reigned the idea of the Creator. She 
felt an exquisite delight to know that no scoffing word 
would pass the lips of Munzel as he discoursed on these 
pleasant topics. Her soul went out in unison with his. He 
thought as she did, believed, adored, prayed like herself. 
His sincerity, a little declamatory and naive at times, 
charmed her. She contrasted this pleasing ingenuousness 
with the harsh philosophy of Rameau. And the scientific 
precision of the one seemed repulsive to her when com- 
pared with the cloudy idealism of the other. 

Munzel opened his mind and heart to Conchita without 
reserve, as he had previously done with Rameau. He did 
not question himself concerning the nature of the sentiments 
that allured him on. If he could have acknowledged to 
himself that he loved his friend’s wife, and that he was un- 
consciously forcing himself to compass her ruin, he would 
have revolted with horror at the idea. He went blindly on 
in the downward course he had entered upon, intoxicated 
with sentimentalism, and not perceiving that his every word 
found an echo in the heart of Conchita. He had been for 


The Fatal Portrait . 


63 


a long time galled at the preference she manifested for 
Talvanne. He had successfully sought to win her regard, 
and now that he had succeeded he meant to make the most 
of it. If any one had abruptly said to him, “You are pay- 
ing a lover’s attention to Rameau’s wife,” he would have 
stopped short, and after a self-examination would analyze 
the state of his mind. But there was no one to give him 
timely warning of the danger he was incurring. Talvanne 
kept away systematically, Rameau had the most unshaken 
confidence, and Conchita herself did not give him a hint of 
his danger by abandoning her habitual reserve. 

There was no change in her attitude toward him, and 
no indication that her sentiment had undergone a trans- 
formation. She listened much and said little. Her grave 
countenance and calm eyes did not reflect the emotion of 
her mind. Even when she was most charmed by Munzel’s 
conversation, she only manifested a sympathetic interest. 
But for the painter, accustomed to indifference, even this 
was a triumph. But how little did he suspect the influence 
he had exercised on the mind of Conchita. 

They passed whole days with one another, talking of all 
things foreign to the subject that occupied them the most, 
both filled with a mysterious trouble that they did not seek 
to analyze. It seemed as if they studied to linger in that 
state of almost systematic ignorance, and that understand- 
ing one another without speaking, they took a supreme 
pleasure in deferring the moment when they would find 
themselves face to face with the reality. Still it was im- 
possible that some circumstance should not occur calcu- 
lated to enlighten them. But, perhaps, it came too late. 

In the midst of these moral complications the work pro- 
ceeded, and the portrait was almost finished. But curiously 
enough, in proportion as the work gained in perfection 
and it was a remarkable picture— the painter grew more 
melancholy and taciturn, as if the completion of his task 
was to entail some disaster on him. Conchita had observed 
the change, and though she suffered from it, inasmuch as 


6 4 


The Fatal Portrait . 


the joyous effusiveness and charming affability of Munzel 
was succeeded by a melancholy silence and bitterness of 
feeling, she did not complain of it, and seemed to be per- 
fectly contented. She affected a tranquillity and gaiety that 
only served to irritate the painter. On such occasions she 
would laugh and tease him, and try to make him lose his 
patience. But he would remain silent, and the sitting would 
end in gloomy dejection. At times, however, Frantz, ex- 
cessively excited, talked as if he wished to reveal all his 
innermost thoughts ; and Conchita listened to him, capti- 
vated by the recital, by his attitude, his voice, his whole 
bearing. 

There were but a few sittings more until the portrait 
would be finished. One day, on reaching the studio, Con- 
chita found Munzel more melancholy than usual. She, 
herself, was suffering from lassitude and uneasiness. She 
had made a few efforts to dissipate the sullen feelings of 
the painter, but in vain. Her words came with difficulty 
and embarrassment. A sort of torpor seemed to weigh on 
her mind, and she had to make an effort in order to appear 
contented. Frantz, seated before his easel, spoke only at 
intervals, and worked on with an absorbed air. The young 
woman, after a painful silence, ventured to say : 

“ It seems to me that the portrait is about finished. How 
long now will it last ? ” 

Munzel cast at her a look of reproach, and answered in 
a disappointed tone : 

“ Your suffering is about at an end. I will put the finish- 
ing touches on it this evening. I could have done without 
you, if I wished, for the past few days. But you know I 
am somewhat selfish, and had you come here. You see I 
am frank. Do you blame me for telling you so?” 

She shook her pretty, dark locks and answered : 

“ No." 

Then rising and taking another pose, she added : 

“ Do you know I will miss these sittings when they will 
be over ? I have grown so used to spend my days here ! ” 


The Fatal Portrait . 


65 


Munzel said nothing, but grew deadly pale. His palette 
trembled in his hand. Conchita remarked it. She con- 
tinued, in her chatty way, as if to relieve him : 

“ Do you know that Rosalie, who spends her time with 
your servant-girl, said to me this morning: ‘When your 
picture is finished, what shall we do with our afternoons ? 
See what an important fact a mere picture can become in 
the path of life.” 

And she laughed. He, however, let her exhaust her 
joyous spirits, and when she had finished and remained 
silent for a moment, he began deliberately : 

“ You speak about yourself, but what shall I say of my- 
self ? This delightful intimacy that has existed between 
us is about to end. You have grown to be my all-in-all, 
and now the charming dream is to end. I am going to 
lose you. And let me add that I can never hope to find 
your like again, or the pleasure I have experienced during 
these few weeks, that now seem so short. Before you 
began coming here I may say that I did not know you at 
all. You always seemed in my presence stiff and formal, 
almost repelling, and I could not realize half the grace 
and beauty that you concealed. But these days, now over, 
added a new zest to my life. Nobody but myself can com- 
prehend the fullness of joy that they have given me. But 
it is all over now — we are about to be separated. This 
studio that you lit up by your presence will now grow as 
dark as a dungeon. This portrait, after you go, will leave 
behind it only a recollection of vanished pleasure.” 

The soft and tender voice that had charmed the sensitive 
woman fora month past almost ended in a sigh. Unthink- 
ingly, Conchita placed her hand on Munzel’s shoulder, to 
calm him, to comfort him, to make him understand how 
intensely she shared his pain. He did not look her in the 
face. He simply handed her a bouquet of forget-me-not 
flowers, such as he had painted on the picture of Madame 
Etchevarray. And this sentimental myosotis that reflected 
so clearly the whole nature of Frantz seemed to say to 


66 


The Fatal Portrait. 


Conchita, “ You will always have me before you, and you 
can never forget him who is always thinking of you/' 

A sudden tenderness of feeling filled the heart of the 
young wife, and her eyes welled with tears that she could 
not restrain. The painter turned away, but again looked 
in her face with such an ardent expression that one would 
have thought they could have never separated from one 
another. A moment of painful silence followed. No 
sound, or w T ord, or step intervened to remind them that 
they were not alone, and that they should not forget the 
principles, the laws, and conventionalities of society. 
Neither of them thought that there was a husband who 
trusted in their fidelity, their honor, and whom it would 
be an infamy to betray. They could see nothing but the 
flame that flashed from their eyes, that consumed their 
hearts ; the kisses that bloomed on their lips, the conquer- 
ing, irresistible love that enveloped them. 

Frantz was about to pronounce the irrevocable words, 
“ I love you," but a sort of indefinable force prevented 
him. His heart sank in his bosom, and the vague feeling 
came over him that he was about to commit a crime. His 
warning sense of honor revolted, and to break the spell he 
abruptly rose. He looked in the face of the young 
woman who sat pale and trembling before him, and stam- 
mered, “ We are both fools ! " 

He went over and opened the window, as if to let out 
the subtile and intoxicating poisons that disturbed his 
brain. He leaned on the sill and bathed his burning brow 
in the fresh air of the gardens that spread out before him. 
Conchita, impelled by an irresistible force, went over and 
sat down beside him. The penetrating fragrance of the 
earth, warmed by the first rays of spring, charmed their 
senses. The grass seemed to take on a greener hue ; the 
buds were opening as if to salute the sun ; the birds car- 
olled among the leaves, and all nature was breathing of 
love. Frantz felt that he should turn around and retire. 
But before him was the woman, with her dreamy eyes, and 


The Fatal Portrait . 


6 ; 

lips pale, like a dying flower. She could scarcely breathe, 
a consuming fire burned in her bosom, the very rays of the 
sun seemed to blind her. She clasped her companion in 
her arms, and in the silence of love everything was for- 
gotten. 

From this hour forth Talvanne remarked that Munzel 
no longer visited the Rue Saint-Dominique, and the uneasi- 
ness he felt before increased. He studied Conchita, but she 
was impassive. Women possess in the highest degree the 
gift of concealing their feelings. Where the wisest man 
would betray himself, the woman can go on unsuspected. 
As remarked, the painter no longer visited his friend, and 
Talvanne saw in this studied absence a mark of guiltiness 
that he wished to prove and that at the same time filled 
him with horror. Rameau accepted as all right the 
excuses of the painter, but regretted being deprived of 
his presence. One day, on arriving at the Medical Acad- 
emy, the doctor, taking advantage of the fact that the pro- 
ceedings had not yet begun, went over and sat down beside 
Talvanne and said : 

“ I am going, as soon as I leave here, to Frantz’s studio 
to see that portrait.” 

And as Talvanne shrugged his shoulders, but made no 
answer, he continued : 

“ You are crusty to-day. As it is a question of pleasing 
my wife, you should have a little more politeness. You do 
not seem to care in the least about a matter that keenly 
interests her. She cannot help remarking it ! ” 

“ Well,” said Talvanne, “ I’ll go with you.” 

When the meeting was over, the doctor rose to go out, 
but was met by one of his colleagues, who engaged him in 
conversation. As he was delayed quite a while, Talvanne 
seemed to grow impatient. Rameau went over to him and 
said : 

“ I can’t go with you. Bonneuil wants me to accompany 
him on a dangerous case.” 

“ Very dangerous ? ” 


68 


The Fatal Portrait . 


“ Yes. He doesn’t want to operate alone. Be kind 
enough to go to Frantz’s studio and tell Conchita not to 
expect me. If I am not at home in time for dinner, don’t 
wait for me.” 

“All right.” 

Rameau shook his friend’s hand, and started away with 
his colleague. Talvanne went to Munzel’s studio. As he 
went, he thought a good deal, and recalling to mind the 
various phases of the painter’s character, he could not sup- 
press an instinctive feeling of distrust, and until then un- 
founded, regarding Frantz. He grumbled to himself : 

“ In the first place, it is owing to the form of head. He 
is a subbrachycephalus, possessing all the bumps of selfish- 
ness, and of cunning instinct, and he can’t be good. He is 
like the cuckoo, a lazy and thieving bird, that lays its eggs 
in its neighbors’ nests. I have told Rameau so, over and 
over. But he will not see, or understand. Undoubtedly 
men like Munzel possess a certain charm. He is pleasing 
and amiable. Even I, though I had to force myself to 
tolerate his presence, succeeded in time. It is true I am a 
mesaticephalus, a man who weighs everything, with a lean- 
ing to criticism, but without a trace of mysticism.” 

In soliloquizing thus, he arrived at Munzel’s studio. It 
was not the fifth story of a building, thronged like a hive, 
that he now occupied, but a pretty mansion, with court-yard, 
and garden. A pretty ante-chamber, the salon, a dining- 
room, and the parlor were on the ground-floor. On the 
first story, to which a stairway in carved wood led, were 
the studio, an immense room, a smoking-room, and a bed- 
room. The door was opened for Talvanne by Rosalie, who 
made herself useful around the premises during the two 
hours she was awaiting her mistress. A broad smile lit up 
her countenance on seeing Talvanne at the door. She ex- 
claimed : 

“Ah ! it is you ? You have come to see the portrait ? I 
am not a good judge, but I think it is splendid. Madame 
will see you at once ; I’ll go and tell her you are here.” 


The Fatal Portrait . 69 

“ Thanks, but don’t go to any trouble ; I know the way 
myself.” 

The good old dame returned to the parlor and Talvanne 
ascended the stairs. He reached the door of the smoking- 
room, and there the sounds of a piano came to him from 
the studio. 

He thought to himself : 

“ If that’s the way he is working at the portrait the sit- 
tings will last for a long time.” 

In spite of himself, he stood and listened. Munzel was 
singing a charming air of Mendelssohn, accompanying it 
on the piano. The words did not come to him distinct, 
but the expression of the melody was tender and pleasing. 
He opened the door and entered the smoking-room, whose 
heavy blinds almost shut out the daylight. In the semi- 
darkness, on the soft carpet that smothered the sound of 
his footsteps, Talvanne remained for a few moments mo- 
tionless. The melody throbbed with this amorous couplet : 

“ Et sur ta Ifcvre en fleur 
Je cueillerai les roses.” * 

Suddenly the melody ceased, as if the fingers had struck 
the last note ; the sound died away, and the echo of a kiss 
broke the silence. Talvanne felt his heart throb, a cold 
thrill ran through his veins, he advanced a few steps, and, 
with a trembling hand, raised the curtain that separated 
the smoking-room from the studio, and saw seated before 
the piano Conchita and Frantz, clasped in each other’s 
arms. The kiss, whose sweet echo he had heard, still 
united their lips. At the same moment, he heard the voice 
of Conchita, who said : 

“ What’s that ? ” And that of Munzel, who answered, 
“ Somebody is coming.” 

Then frightened, as if it was himself who had com- 
mitted the wrong, Talvanne hastened from the room, and 


* I will gather the roses on thy blooming lips. 


70 


The Fatal Portrait . 


did not stop until he had gained the stairway, where he 
grasped the banister to keep himself from falling. 

Scarce had he beaten this retreat when Munzel appeared, 
and exclaimed, with affected pleasure : 

“Ah ! it is you, my dear friend ! ” 

The two men remained for a moment silent, gazing at 
one another, until at length Munzel, with downcast look, 
invited the alienist to come in, and whispered : 

“Madame, it is Talvanne.” 

The alienist entered the studio. Conchita was standing 
beside the portrait, with her face turned from the light. 
She turned quickly around, cast a glance in the surprised 
face of her friend, and nonchalantly extended her hand. 

He did not accept it, but said with suppressed uneasi- 
ness : 

“ Madame, I am instructed by your husband to say that 
he cannot come here for you, and to return home without 
awaiting him.” 

“Very well,” replied Conchita, quietly. 

She stepped back from the portrait, that hung on the 
easel in a favorable light, and asked : 

“ What do you think of it ? ” 

A frown passed over Talvanne’s face as he answered, 
without even glancing at the canvas : 

“ Admirable ! ” 

His looks were fixed threateningly on Munzel, who en- 
dured them with forced coolness. Talvanne’s attitude had 
not escaped Conchita’s notice. She surmised that if she 
left, leaving the two men face to face, something serious 
might occur, and with an affected smile she said : 

“ Since my husband has neglected me, as he always 
does, you will accompany me home, will you not?” 

“You don’t need my company,” Talvanne answered, 
sourly. “ Rosalie is waiting for you down-stairs.” 

“ I will send her on ahead, and you will come home with 
me in the carriage.” 

“ Excuse me, I have pressing business to attend to.” 


The Fatal Portrait . 


7 1 

“You can let it go for once.” And as Talvanne was 
about to reply, she continued with an imperious air • 

“ I want you to do so.” 

He yielded silently, and, without speaking to Munzel, 
passed out. She adjusted her hat and shawl, and with a 
feverish shake of the hand, which expressed to Frantz all 
that she dared not say, she left the room. Talvanne was 
waiting at the carriage door. She entered, made him sit 
down beside her, and said to the coachman : “ Drive 
home.” The carriage rolled along, while both Talvanne 
and Conchita remained silent and thoughtful, each feeling 
that the first word spoken would lead to a terrible conver- 
sation. It was the woman who first lost patience, and 
boldly broached the subject that she felt could not be 
avoided : 

“ You acted rather strangely a few moments ago before 
your friend,” she began, in an indignant tone. 

“Oh! I beg your pardon, madame,” replied Talvanne, 
with a bitterness he vainly tried to suppress ; “ but the 
man of whom you speak has never been my friend, thank 
God. I have never been mistaken in regard to him. The 
first day I met him I conceived an antipathy toward him, 
and I have never changed in regard to him. I have always 
considered him unfaithful, a liar, and a coward. Oh ! no, 
he is not my friend, but he is your husband’s friend ! ” 

At these words, uttered in a sarcastic tone, Conchita 
shuddered. Her face flushed, and in an agitated tone, 
she asked haughtily : 

“What do you suspect, Talvanne ?” 

“ I suspect nothing,” he replied. “ I simply know. I 
caught you, on my arrival, in the arms of that miserable 
wretch. Yes, you, you for whom I had always entertained 
such affection, devotedness, and respect, I am now com- 
pelled to condemn with the utmost severity. And your 
husband, that man so superior in mind and heart, who 
actually adores you — you have sacrificed him for a Mun- 
zel. Where is the advantage in being superior to all one's 


72 


The Fatal Portrait . 


fellows, in possessing genius, in being universally admired, 
if the first brush-scratcher who comes along, with his lan- 
guid air and empty phrases, can rob us of the joys of ex- 
istence and dishonor us ? Ah ! you have done wrong, very 
wrong ! You whom we loved so dearly ! You were the 
only object of our thoughts ; our sole desire was to please 
you and to render you happy. And, in a moment, you 
have sacrificed all that, and for what, I ask? Yes, for 
what ? Ah ! you have been ungrateful and unfaithful, and 
I, for one, can never forgive you.” 

He spoke with intense feeling, and Conchita, more 
touched by his sorrow than his anger, could not say a 
word in reply. She leaned back, and unaffectedly gave 
herself up to the excess of her grief. Talvanne resumed : 

“And what imprudence you exhibited ! You exposed 
yourself to the danger of being seen by whoever might 
have come along. When I think that only for an accident, 
which I now bless, your husband would have come along 
with me ! And he would have surprised you. Do you 
know that he is a man who would kill both of you ? ” 

“ I know it.” 

Talvanne turned around to her, and with less harshness 
of tone continued : 

“My dear friend, listen to me, I beg of you, with all 
your heart and mind. It is impossible to believe that you 
are as guilty as appearances would represent you. You 
yielded to a momentary impulse, but you are, neverthe- 
less, a good and virtuous woman. You will be as you 
were before, what you ought to be. Think of all you fool- 
ishly risked, that you would have lost for nothing. Think 
of yourself, think of your husband.” 

Conchita’s eyes flashed, and her face assumed an expres- 
sion of furious hatred, as she replied: 

“ My husband is the cause of it all. It is he who led me 
into evil. It is he who is answerable for my offence.” 

“ He !” exclaimed Talvanne. “Your language is mon- 
strous ! ” 


The Fatal Portrait . 


73 


“ But it is true. If he himself were here in your place, 
I would repeat what I have said, and he dare not answer 
me. How could he deem it a crime for me to yield to an 
impulse of the senses — he, who believes only in matter ? 
According to him, humanity is guided only by its instincts. 
He puts it on the same level with the brute. What, then, 
was there to stop me ? The sentiment of duty, you would 
say ! But that sentiment is conscience, and conscience is 
the soul. You know well that he does not believe in any 
such thing. My ears still tingle with his sneers — poor, 
superstitious creature, as he called me — when I endeavored 
to defend my belief. You have been a witness of these 
scenes ; you took my part without any other result than to 
be made the butt with me of his proud philosophy. He 
broke down at pleasure all the barriers that would have 
restrained me. The commandments of my God bound me 
to fidelity and respect for him ; he declared that that God 
did not exist, and that heaven was empty. My mother, 
from my infancy, had taught me the necessity of being 
good and virtuous during this life, in order to be rewarded 
in the next ; he taught me that nothing of us exists after 
death. And what did he want to substitute for this con- 
soling faith and salutary fear ? Vague moral principles, 
variable, since they are the conceptions of minds liable to 
change ; frail, since they are essentially human. And you 
are indignant because I say that he is the cause of all that 
has happened ; because I hold him responsible for my of- 
fence. Yes, I repeat, if there is any crime, he is the real 
criminal ; and he only seems all the more execrable to me 
when I think how loving, faithful, and devoted I would 
have been if he had not done all in his power to prevent 
me from being so." 

“ But he loves you, loves you passionately," exclaimed 
Talvanne, confused by such an unexpected confession. 

“ Yes, let us talk of it — of his love ! " resumed Conchita, 
angrily. “ What did he love in me ? My body ! That is 
all he sought. He saw only the pleasure of possessing 


74 


The Fatal Portrait . 


me, because I was young and beautiful. A materialist, his 
passion has been for matter only, and nothing could be 
more low, abject, and repulsive than his sentiment. He 
did not wish to share any of my aspirations, to realize any 
of my dreams ; he rejected my every ideal. He wanted a 
wife just as he wanted his dinner, and he took me. Well, he 
has repelled me, disgusted me, and I thus repeat, not at 
random but deliberately, not to defend myself but to con- 
demn him, that he is the cause of all.” 

There was a moment of silence. 

Talvanne was astounded at what he had heard. He could 
never have suspected that Conchita had such a bitter leaven 
in her nature. He felt that the arguments she had adduced 
could be easily refuted, but he likewise realized the rav- 
ages that Rameau’s theories had made in the young wife’s 
mind. And, with his good sense, he chafed on seeing that 
his good friend had been unconsciously guilty of the im- 
prudence that had induced all this trouble. 

How often had he discussed with him the destructive 
effects of materialism on the mind of woman. From the 
moment that everything is confined, for humanity, between 
the narrow limits of birth and death, from the moment that 
nothing is to be expected after death, can there be any 
other end in life than unmitigated pleasure? The watch- 
word of existence would be — enjoyment. There would no 
longer be question of duty or sacrifice. Everything that 
would not offer an immediate and real satisfaction would 
be deception. And the end would then be a complete lapse 
of morality, wholesale license. 

Conchita roused him from his reflections. She said: 

“ Do not believe, however, that I justify myself because I 
accuse my husband. He has done nothing to attach me to 
him by an indestructible bond ; he risked destroying in my 
mind the pure faith of my youth, but he has not succeeded. 
I believe in a severe and just God, who forbids sin and 
punishes it. I know I am guilty, and I suffer unspeakably. 
I yielded to an impulse, because I was not protected against 


The Fatal Portrait . 


75 

my own weakness, but I condemn that weakness and know 
I must make amends for it.” 

At these words Talvanne raised his head. 

“And how will you make amends for it?” 

“ Will not the recollection of my fall be a continual tor- 
ture for me? If I did not sincerely regret my offence, do 
you think I would vehemently accuse my husband with not 
having so acted that I would not have committed it ? But 
that is not all. I have retained the sincerity of my faith, 
and I tremble at the thought of my punishment. I shall 
have a terrible account to render some day.” 

“Then, if you so sincerely regret your fault, you ought 
to resolve not to repeat it.” 

Conchita’s face assumed a downcast expression, and, in 
an agitated voice, she answered: 

“ What do you ask of me, then ? ” 

He looked at her severely and replied: 

“ Never to see Munzel again ! ” 

She answered in a feeble tone : 

“ Will I have sufficient courage ? ” 

“ You must have it.” 

“ But if what you exact is beyond my strength ? You 
have no idea of the influence he exercises over me. He has 
absolute control of my mind ; he has the completest moral 
possession of me. My mind is identified with his own, and 
my heart responds to his voice like a servant to his master. 
All that he dreams, all that he desires, all that he aspires 
to, I dream, desire, and aspire to also. I am but an echo 
of himself. We have the same tastes, the same sympathies, 
the same belief. Never was woman created to belong to a 
man more than I am to him. Since I met him for the first 
time I had a confused notion of that accord between our 
two natures ; and, instinctively, I turned away from him. 
I did my utmost to keep apart from him. A will independ- 
ent of mine brought us together ; in an instant our souls 
recognized one another, and went out to one another. I 
forgot everything, renounced everything. I was no longer 


The Fatal Portrait . 


76 

myself ; I existed in him, and I cannot understand by what 
means I could have resisted. How do you think I can be 
stronger in the future than in the past ? " 

“ Take care," exclaimed Talvanne, exasperated by that 
passionate declaration ; “ if you have not the strength to 
separate yourself from him, I will have the strength to 
separate him from you. I have b^en able to talk to you 
calmly, because I have for you all the affection of a father 
for his child, but I have a horror of your offence, and to 
permit you to continue it would be making me an accom- 
plice. Do not imagine that I am weak enough to submit 
to that. I let you explain your grievances a moment ago. 
But do not believe that you thereby made me forget those 
of your husband. A single word would be enough to en- 
lighten him, and the situation would then become terrible. 
Do not compel me to have recourse to such an extremity. 
Give me the right to respect his peace and to assure yours. 
On leaving you I am going to return to Munzel.” 

“ I forbid you to do anything of the kind ! " exclaimed 
Conchita, with flashing glance. “ No explanations between 
you and him. I compelled you to accompany me in order 
to avoid all difficulty." 

“ Then make him retire, leave here altogether. He is 
free to do so, and his artistic taste will furnish a sufficient 
pretext. It is necessary that he shall not be exposed to 
come any more into Rameau’s presence. Your husband will 
doubtless suffer by his absence, for he thinks a great deal of 
him. That is one of the invariable and regrettable phases of 
the comedy of human life. Do you accept these conditions ?" 

“I do." 

“ See, above all, that his departure be not sudden and 
unexpected. We must all play our part so that your hus- 
band will suspect nothing. That is very important. A man 
such as he, so useful to his fellow-men, should not be made 
the victim of a vulgar misfortune which would blight his 
admirable intellect. The husband has been sacrificed, let 
us at least respect the scientist." 


77 


The Separation . 

Conchita shook her head gravely, and said : 

“Take care, Talvanne ; to associate yourself too closely 
with him is to court danger. The atheist draws down the 
wrath of heaven. Everything around him will be blasted 
with misfortune. For me it will be a just chastisement, 
but for you ” 

The alienist looked at Conchita, and then with a quiet 
smile, replied : 

“ Let whatever may come happen, madame. For five and 
twenty years I have loved Rameau like a brother ; and, be- 
lieve me, I am a good Christian, but I assure you I would 
rather be lost with him than be saved with somebody whom 
I know." 

The carriage turned into the yard of the Rue Saint- 
Dominique. Talvanne alighted, respectfully offered his 
arm to Conchita, and both entered the house. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE SEPARATION. 

A few weeks later the opening of the Salon took place, 
and Munzel’s work scored a triumph. Certainly, never had 
the painter’s talent attained such perfection, and the work 
was justly pronounced a master-piece. Exhibited in the 
apartment of honor, Conchita’s portrait attracted the ad- 
miration of everybody. Dressed in deep black, her pale 
brow shining from under her dark, wavy hair, her large, ex- 
pressive eyes turned heavenward, as if in ecstasy, she was a 
type of unsurpassed beauty. From her wide sleeve, open 
at the elbow, her bare arm protruded, and lay carelessly on 
the folds of her dress. In her hand was a small bouquet 
of forget-me-nots, the only bright feature of that sombre 
picture. The frame was of ebony, and the whole ensemble 
seemed to breathe of mourning. 

Rameau, delighted at the success of his friend, was not 


78 


The Separation . 


wholly happy, however. Munzel was not there to taste 
the first joys of his popularity. A letter from his father 
had suddenly called him to Stuttgart a month previously, 
and the little news they had from him did not hold out any 
sign of his return. The doctor was never tired of going to 
see Conchita's portrait. He loved to stop in the midst of 
the groups that stood near it, and delighted in listening to 
the praises bestowed on the beauty of his wife and the 
talent of his friend. Quickly recognized by his herculean 
stature and massive head, he soon attracted attention ; he 
would then retire abruptly to escape the embarrassment of 
his own glory. He read with pride the eulogistic notices 
of it in the journals, but would not admit the slightest 
criticism of it. He wished only unanimity of praise for 
that work that was doubly dear to him. 

The indifference of Talvanne excited his indignation. 
The alienist, when led before the picture, did not either 
praise or condemn it ; he remained sullen and almost 
silent. Asked by Rameau to give his opinion of it, he ex- 
pressed his admiration of the original, but retained an ab- 
solute reserve concerning the picture. Rameau made no 
answer, as a number of persons were standing by. But as 
he left him, he was evidently irritated. The following day 
Talvanne dined at the Rue Saint-Dominique. Rameau, 
during the evening, abruptly asked him : 

“ I see you are not pleased with the portrait, and I would 
like you to tell me what fault you find with it.” 

At these words Conchita, who was working near the 
table, started, and her hands, as they held the crochet- 
work, trembled visibly. A glance, swift as an arrow, shot 
from her eyes, and she turned her head so as not to appear 
in the full light of the lamp. 

As Talvanne paid no attention, wishing to avoid a dis- 
cussion that he felt might take a dangerous turn, Rameau 
earnestly resumed : 

“Yes, what fault do you find with that portrait ? If you 
imagine that I did not understand your silence, when I 


79 


The Separation . 

brought you to see it at the Exposition, and that I do not 
read the meaning of your looks, you are mistaken. You 
are not a painter yourself ; how, then, can Munzel’s suc- 
cess affect you ? Bu* why, after all, do I question you ? I 
should be satisfied on that point long ago ; you have always 
been jealous of Frantz.” 

“ I,” explained Talvanne, abruptly rising from his seat ; 
“I? Why ” 

He made an indignant gesture, and was about to blurt 
out all he knew, but he chanced to suddenly glance at 
Conchita, and he answered with forced calmness : 

“ It is because I naturally dislike painting. I do not find 
anything frank or sincere about it. It is wholly artificial, 
mechanical. It is an art, but a hypocritical and disloyal 
art.” 

He hissed forth these words as if he intended to smite 
an enemy with them. 

“ Why don't you add, like himself,” broke in Rameau, 
ironically. “ You must be lacking in charity to speak thus, 
before me, of a man whom I esteem and love.” 

“ Well, let us admit that I do lack charity,” replied Tal- 
vanne coldly. 

He cast a glance toward Conchita. She was working 
busily again, apparently calm and indifferent, with down- 
cast look. After a moment’s silence, she rose, walked 
around the room, and turning to her husband, said : 

“ I am tired, and I am going up-stairs. Besides, your 
discussions are anything but entertaining.” 

She reached her hand to Talvanne and left the room. 

“ You see, you have driven away Conchita,” said Rameau 
to his friend. “ She did not like to say that she found you 
dull and displeasing ; she preferred to leave.” 

“ Good ! good ! ” growled Talvanne, stretching back in 
his chair. “ I will make my peace with her to-morrow.” 

“ She needs to be treated with consideration,” replied 
Rameau. “ You know that I do not conceal anything from 
you. I may then confide our hopes to you. Nature in its 


8o 


The Separation . 

beneficence replaces those who die with those who are 
born. It deprived Conchita of her mother ; it gives her 
back a child.” 

Talvanne remained motionless, as if petrified. A frown 
passed over his face, and he seemed lost in a painful 
reverie. 

“That’s the way you receive a piece of news that fills me 
with joy,” continued Rameau, after a moment’s silence. 
“ In truth, I sometimes ask myself if you have the slightest 
affection for me, and if you are not the most selfish man 
that could possibly be found. A child in this house would 
mean noise and racket. That would be annoying to you, 
would it not? A child ! that would be an intrusion. Why 
should it come ? ” 

Rameau rose and walked up and down the room. He 
felt a hand placed on his shoulder. He saw Talvanne be- 
fore him, somewhat pale, but smiling. 

“ No, it would be no intrusion,” he said ; “ this child 
that you so desire and hope for. It is enough that you 
will love it, my good friend, in order to make it dear to 
me. If it be a boy, rest assured that I will assist you in 
bringing him up and educating him. He will be all in all 
to both of us. He will grow up under our eyes. We will 
make him a learned man, like his father, and we will cher- 
ish an ambition for him that we did not entertain for our- 
selves.” 

“Ah ! my good Talvanne, I find you are yourself again,” 
exclaimed Rameau, cordially grasping his hand. 

“ But if it be a girl ?” remarked Talvanne. 

“Well, then,” replied Rameau, “ we -will hope that she 
may be like her mother. That will be sufficient.” 

A cloud seemed to pass over Talvanne’s countenance 
anew. But Rameau's joyous spirit made a happy and 
prompt diversion. And thus smoking and chatting the 
two friends continued to pass the rest of the evening, map- 
ping out those pleasant projects which always charm the 
present hour, but which the future so seldom realizes. 


The Separation. 8 1 

Conchita gave birth to a daughter. She was named 
Adrienne, at the suggestion of Talvanne, her godfather. 
Munzel, who had been travelling for the past three months 
in Greece, sent his tenderest wishes for the little visitor, 
and a superb pair of antique bracelets for the mother. 
Rameau was disappointed at not having his friend with 
him on the baptismal day, but the radiant joyousness of 
Talvanne compensated him. The alienist grew to fairly 
adore the little cherub, pink and pretty, as it lay smiling 
in its cradle. He used to sit down beside it and watch it 
calmly sleeping. He talked to it, and tried to “ please ” it, 
until the infant soon grew to know him, and used to laugh 
and crow when he came near. 

“You shall be my daughter,” he used to say to it ; “I will 
not follow the example of your papa, who got married ; 
I shall remain a bachelor, and you will have no rival in my 
heart. You will be very beautiful, and I will take you to 
walk and stop at every shop, for I am not an illustrious 
man and will have plenty of leisure, and will live to please 
you. You will be happy, I promise you. Old Talvanne 
will see that your happiness will not be marred. Sleep, 
my little darling, and dream the pleasantest of dreams ; 
for dreams are, after all, about the best things of life.” 

Rameau listened, smiling, and he loved Talvanne all the 
more for the tenderness he manifested toward the babe. 
He sometimes said to him : 

“You are a surprising character. You have taken com- 
plete possession of my daughter. I do not seem to exist 
for her any longer. Be generous, and leave me a little of 
her affection.” 

“ You know nothing about children,” Talvanne would 
growl ; “go and devote yourself to your studies.” 

And he would thus almost put Rameau out of the room. 
Conchita, like a proud queen, happy on seeing the future 
of her dynasty assured, revelled in the splendid luxury 
with which her husband surrounded her. She bloomed in 
all her radiant beauty, and largely contributed to attract 


82 


The Separation . 

the great throng that gathered to the receptions of the 
distinguished man at the mansion in the Rue Saint-Dom- 
inique. It was in the last days of the imperial reign. Paris 
revelled in display and pleasure. A new city, large and 
enchanting, built of sculptured stone and marble palaces, 
had arisen, as if by magic, in the place of the old black 
and tortuous capital. The richness of the furniture was 
in keeping with the splendor of the residences, and indus- 
try had produced the most sumptuous decorations for the 
embellishment of modern Paris. It was not the best taste, 
to be sure, that determined the choice of these marvels, 
but it was boundless wealth that paid for them. Every- 
thing seemed rich then in Paris the brilliant and superb, 
or at least everything appeared to be. Money flowed like 
water. And never did the golden calf assist at an assem- 
blage like that which danced to the jingling of coin for its 
music. 

Rameau lent himself readily to the whims of his wife, 
and turned his mansion into a real museum. He gave 
fetes that caused as much newspaper comment as his own 
works. He was happy. Still, one dark cloud obscured his 
heaven. For two years past Munzel had only barely set 
foot in Paris, before he was off again for distant lands. At 
the Rue Saint-Dominique he appeared cold, formal, and 
embarrassed. His attitude toward Rameau and Conchita 
had completely changed. While in their house he seemed 
to suffer intense torture. He scarce looked at little 
Adrienne, and he could hardly be persuaded to take her in 
his arms or kiss her. What was still more surprising for 
Rameau was that Talvanne seemed to regard this es- 
trangement as quite natural. 

“ Painters, you see,” said the alienist to his friend, “ are 
only impressed with the external value of men or things. 
For them the substance, the heart, is nothing. Form is 
everything. What interest do you think Munzel could 
take in a youngster with chubby nose and staring eyes, a 
toothless mouth and hairless head ? He will not study 


83 


The Separation . 

the awakening of intelligence in that little brain, the 
growth of recognition in those staring eyes. The lisping 
of that little mouth only wearies him. But he would go 
into ecstasy before some sun-browned beggar-woman in 
her picturesque rags ; he will study her, paint her picture, 
and then will pay no further attention to her. His horizon 
is bounded by his sight. For him the rest has no exist- 
ence ; and then he is an unmitigated egoist, as I have often 
before told you, and an egoist does not love children, be- 
cause people lavish attention on them instead of on him- 
self. He is going away to Palermo. He would rather be 
there than with us. And I am not sorry for his going — 
bon voyage ! ” 

Rameau nodded his head, but made no answer ; some- 
thing unusual with him. He now asked himself if his 
friend after all might not be right, and the painter was not 
too indifferent. After the warm friendship he had shown 
him, how could Frantz leave him so easily? He did not 
then remember the years gone by ? And his mature man- 
hood was to belie the professions of his youth ? How was 
it possible ? He began to think that Munzel was the 
victim of some hidden sorrow. Such misanthropy, such 
an inexplicable estrangement, must have been caused by 
some secret suffering. He resolved not to let the painter 
depart without questioning him on the subject. And with 
this purpose in view he repaired one morning to his studio. 

It was no longer the blonde and pale Munzel that he 
found one day stretched on his couch, his brain on fire 
with despair. During the past two years the painter had 
grown gray and his face bronzed under the sun of the 
Orient. Standing on a high ladder, Frantz was working 
on a painting ordered by the King of Wurtemberg for one 
of the halls of his palace. On seeing the doctor he did 
not utter an exclamation of joy as formerly. He blushed, 
and, laying down his palette, slowly descended. 

Rameau, standing motionless, scanned the countenance 
of his friend as he approached, seeking to discover some 


8 4 


The Separation . 


mark of the mysterious trouble that he had suspected. 
He saw nothing unusual in him, except that he was some- 
what stiff and formal. He reached out his hand to the 
doctor, who pressed it warmly, saying : 

“ Munzel, you seem to have lost all affection for me.” 

At these words the painter was visibly affected, and, fix- 
ing his eyes on the doctor, replied : 

“ Why do you say that ? ” 

“ Because you are so changed in the past two years that 
I am anxious to know what has caused it. You, who used 
to live with me like a brother, now spend eleven months 
of the year away in foreign countries without any other 
reason than pure caprice. One would imagine you were 
trying to avoid me. For when, by chance, you come to 
Paris, it is with difficulty that I can see you ; I have either 
to send for you or to come to you myself. Is there any- 
thing troubling you? Are you sick ? Can I cure you or 
comfort you ? ” 

Munzel, gloomy and chilling in manner, sat down with- 
out making any reply. He remained for a moment with 
downcast eyes, and then murmured : 

“Well, yes, I am unhappy.” 

And as Rameau was about to further question him, he 
continued : 

“ But you cannot — nobody can do anything for me. It 
is a malady for which there is no cure.” 

“ Are you in love ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And who is she that causes you such pain ? ” 

“ I cannot see her any more ; I must not see her.” 

“ Does she live in Paris ? ” 

Munzel hesitated an instant, and replied : 

“ Yes.” 

“ And it is to avoid seeing her that you keep so far away, 
for such a length of time. But what is it that keeps you 
apart ? ” 

The painter, with a look of distress, replied : 


35 


The Separation. 

“ Do not question me further, you only add to my dis- 
tress. I do not wish to say anything ; I am in despair, 
that’s all. I am going away this time for a longer stay 
than usual. I shall be gone for two or three years, per- 
haps. But do not accuse me of indifference. How could 
I forget all the kindness you lavished on me ? It is that 
which pains me. And still I must absent myself. Nothing 
could induce me to remain.” 

Rameau endeavored in his philosophic way to comfort 
and encourage him. But to anything that the doctor ad- 
vised the painter decisively answered, “ No.” They re- 
mained together for two hours, and the doctor did not 
leave the studio until he had made Munzel promise that 
before leaving Paris he would come and dine with him. 

The following day he received a brief note, in which 
Frantz informed him that an unexpected event called him 
away hurriedly. He begged him to present hU apologies 
to his friends of the Rue Saint-Dominique, and expressed 
to him his kindest regards. Conchita listened to the read- 
ing of the note with smiling impassibility. She had her 
baby on her lap, and kept fondling it. As to Talvanne, he 
shrugged his shoulders and muttered some words in a 
surly tone about the annoyance of knowing and dealing 
with absurd people. Rameau alone was keenly disap- 
pointed. 

Life at the Rue Saint-Dominique gradually resumed its 
former course, and the fugitive, if he was not forgotten, at 
least ceased to be a subject of angry discussion. Rameau 
continued his labors in the fields of anatomy and physiol- 
°gy, giving a bolder impulse to modern science. The for- 
mer revolutionist was now unanimously considered one of 
the most penetrating minds of the age. More lucky than 
the majority of innovators, he had the satisfaction of see- 
ing his theories adopted and praised. 

His ideas had expanded and shaped themselves into a 
clear and profound system. He had ceased to be aggres- 
sive ; he no longer exhibited the violence of a sectary, but 


86 


The Separation . 


the calm and firm certainty of a master. He had repudi- 
ated none of the principles of his youth, he simply pre- 
sented them with less harshness of tone. The fire was as 
intense, but it was hidden under the conservatism of age. 
His system was eagerly followed, and when he consented 
to deliver a course of lectures at the Sorbonne, Gerson 
Hall was thronged by all classes of people. 

He possessed, in addition to a rare clearness of exposi- 
tion, the art of developing a subject in a manner that lent 
to it an absorbing interest. The form of his discourses 
was as remarkable as their substance. Reproduced from 
the stenographic reports, they were accurate enough to 
pass into the hands of the publisher without revision or 
retouching. He was popularly known as the Michelet of 
science. He possessed that admirable historian’s talent 
of evocation, and excelled in giving a palpable body, a 
tangible form to the most abstract and airy conceptions. 
His iron constitution permitted him to perform the most 
excessive labor, as in the vigor of his youth. His life was 
devoted to two objects — to his family and to science, and 
he seemed to be exceptionally favored on one side as the 
other. 

Still, he was not perfectly happy. Between Conchita 
and himself a cloud was continually gathering. But there 
was no longer a word of controversy between the excess- 
ive religiousness of his wife and his own free-thought. 

They both feared one another, and studiously avoided 
these dangerous subjects that had so cruelly divided them 
on several occasions. They remained in their respective 
positions, like exhausted combatants who have felt one 
another’s strength and who refrain from engaging in con- 
flict again, knowing that the result would be undecided. 

Conchita’s fervor was redoubled, however, and her pious 
exercises were never more regular. With an easy tran- 
quillity, which, doubtless, may be attributed to her Spanish 
origin, she mingled the sacred and profane, and hastened 
to church almost as soon as she had left the ball-room. 


The Separation. 


87 


She dined luxuriously on Saturday at two o’clock in the 
morning, after having abstained from meat on Friday. 
Her faith, intolerant in the moral order, was indulgent in 
the material order. A woman who did not fulfil her re- 
ligious duties filled her with horror, but she received in. 
her parlor ladies whose levity was notorious. Her hus- 
band used to joke about it with Talvanne, but he was care- 
ful to say nothing about it before her. 

He loved her, as in former days, with the passion of a 
man already grown old, who has found in love a renewal 
of youth. Perhaps, curious phase of human nature, he 
even loved her a little more on account of that very fanati- 
cism that was the occasion of their disagreements. He 
always felt that she was in rebellion against him, and when 
he approached her, she seemed to experience an access 
of repugnance. Still she had not done anything to cause 
an estrangement between them, observing in this regard 
the rule of her religion. She tolerated him, but that was 
all. He, good even to weakness, overlooked all her ca- 
prices, loaded her with favors, and poured a flood of gold 
into her indifferent hands. His daughter was on earth to 
him the divinity that he refused to admit in heaven. He 
spent whole hours chatting with her, explaining to her the 
simplest things. He amused himself with little Adrienne, 
and forgot everything else in her presence — his patients, 
visits, professional duties — to obey every look of her soft 
blue eyes. 

For the child, though bearing a striking resemblance to 
her mother, had, nevertheless, blonde hair and blue eyes. 
She was the picture of Conchita, with the exception of 
the black, wavy hair, and the flashing, dark eyes. And, 
brought up like a princess under the careful watchfulness 
of the faithful Rosalie, Rameau’s daughter knew only joy 
and laughter. She never knew what it was to cry, and if 
she felt any pain, her father discovered some medical 
secret to assuage her suffering. She had for a continual 
playmate, whether in the garden, at the Champs Elys6es, 


88 


The Separation. 

or elsewhere, a little lad twelve years of age, whom she 
called Rob, and who was a grandson of Doctor Servant. 

Reverses of fortune had overtaken the family of the 
good doctor of Lagny, and his son, captain of a battery of 
artillery, had died in Mexico, leaving his wife and only 
child in a dependent condition. But Rameau was on hand, 
and remembering what he owed to his old friend, he ob- 
tained for the widow the position of inspectress of the 
Maternity Society, while he himself took charge of the ed- 
ucation of little Robert. 

“ He will be my successor,” he said to Madame Servant ; 
and, seeing Robert so attentive to little Adrienne, pleasant 
thoughts of what the future might bring "naturally sug- 
gested themselves to his mind. 

Talvanne, who had just turned his fiftieth year, and, 
with his clean-shaven face and long, gray hair, looked much 
older, felt the weight of his position growing with his 
years. As an authority on medical jurisprudence, he was 
without a rival. Consulted every time a great criminal 
fell into the hands of justice, he yielded, in the honesty of 
his soul, in favor of assassins on the principle of moral irre- 
sponsibility. But in difficult cases his high professional 
ability was confirmed by the most ingenious observations 
and clear conclusions. Without appropriating any glory 
to himself he profited by the European reputation of his 
asylum to perform countless secret deeds of charity. He 
had in his institution almost as many non-paying as pay- 
ing inmates. And he interested himself more in favor of 
the poor than the rich. 

This good man, however, had one weakness. He could 
not bear the sight of journalists. Whenever a reporter 
accosted him, apropos of some notorious criminal or some 
inmate of his institution, the old man could not help break- 
ing out in denunciation of the scandalous curiosity of all 
those who wrote for the papers. When he spoke of jour- 
nalists, it was with indignation, and he generally wound 
up his opinion of them with the remark: “They are the 


The Separation. 89 

poisoners of public opinion.” But at the same time it 
must be remarked in justice to him that he was a vehement 
defender of the liberty of the press, and if a journalist got 
into difficulty by the too open expression of his opinion, he 
was his most ardent defender. He was happy, and satis- 
fied with the world around him. His goodness of heart 
was inexhaustible. He loved science and liberty, and de- 
fended both under all circumstances. 

The existence of this family — for thus -we must charac- 
terize such friends as Rameau and Talvanne — passed in 
peace and happiness, when the Franco-German war broke 
out like a thunderbolt. In an instant all the joyousness of 
life was changed. The city, so brilliant, luxurious, became 
a vast camp. The fetes were succeeded by the clash of 
arms. The feverish agitation that always precedes battle 
and the stunning stupor that follows defeat, took posses- 
sion of that population so habituated to universal idolatry, 
and so confident of its own invincibility. Wounded pride 
was transformed into fury. Unable to repel the invasion, 
the Parisians overthrew the empire. In default of a 
victory, they inaugurated a revolution. A certain por- 
tion of the population approved of it. A wave descended 
from Belleville and Montmartre, rolled through the muddy 
quarters of the capital, smashing the imperial eagles and 
insignia, mutilating monuments, and upsetting a govern- 
ment that was already tottering. Then a dull and mourn- 
ful silence followed the orgie. The city that was always so 
ready for a fete, now prepared for a siege. The trees of 
the Bois de Boulogne, in the shade of which, the week be- 
fore, the most elegant equipages rolled along, were now 
cut down. A deep melancholy suddenly took the place 
of unbridled gaiety, and it was plain that Paris, after 
having scandalized the world by its folly, was now about 
to astonish it by its heroism. 

Rameau never dreamed of leaving the city. His patri- 
otic heart had been cruelly wounded by the first results of 
the war. From the outset he foresaw the investment of 


9 o 


The Separation. 

the capital, and took his precautions in consequence. He 
laid in an ample stock of provisions, and had Talvanne 
send home to their families a number of his patients in the 
hospitals. He and Talvanne, besides, organized an ambu- 
lance service, at the insane asylum, where two hundred 
wounded could be cared for at a time. Rameau, on ac- 
count of his illustrious reputation, was at once appointed 
by the Provisional Government to take charge of the en- 
tire medical service. He accepted this weighty duty with 
ardent patriotism. 

This man, endowed with such a marvellous faculty for 
work, and who could do nothing by halves, gave his days 
and nights to the task confided to him. In wind and snow, 
clad in his civil costume — for he had a horror of a uni- 
form and decorations — with the Red Cross of the Geneva 
Society on his arm, he was continually rushing from the 
hospitals to the advance-posts, from the Palais de l’lndus- 
trie, his headquarters, to Talvanne’s ambulance station, his 
eyes open for everything around him, regulating every de- 
tail, stopping at a soldier’s cot to readjust a bandage, as he 
passed by, giving instructions to the orderlies and nurses, 
and, when called on, performing the most serious opera- 
tions on the mangled soldiers brought back from the front. 

He could be seen during the day, in the evening, at all 
hours of the night, in the most unexpected places, aston- 
ishing everybody by his prodigious activity, and the strength 
that could endure such an unbroken strain. Still, he never 
seemed to be in better form, and not a mark of fatigue 
could be traced on his energetic face. The only change 
that could be noticed in him was a softness of manner. 
His pupils would no longer recognize him. No more 
bursts of temper, or angry gestures, or stormy scoldings 
that used to terrify all the officials at the hospitals. Even 
his legendary frown no longer appeared on his forehead. 
One could but think that the misfortunes of his country 
had softened the manner of the great man, and that, see- 
ing everybody around him suffering, he tried to bring to 


The Separation . 


91 


them all the comfort possible. He did not utter a harsh 
word, under any provocation, when extracting a ball, or 
cutting off a limb of a poor, wounded soldier. The sur- 
geons who served with him used to say: 

“Isn’t Rameau changed !” “What a different man he 
is ! ” 

But he was himself all along, in his marvellous skill of 
hand, and ingenious knowledge of treating disease. The 
uncleanliness of the hospitals, natural under such conditions, 
swept away large numbers of the patients, and he spoke to 
Talvanne about inventing a new disinfectant of irresistible 
power. And so, one night, in his laboratory in the Rue 
Saint-Dominique, the lights that gleamed through the win- 
dow-panes told that the scientist was engaged in one of his 
usual experiments. About three o’clock in the morning, a 
loud detonation was heard, that aroused the whole house 
in affright. Conchita and Rosalie rushed to the labora- 
tory, and there, in the midst of an acrid vapor, found Ra- 
meau, with his hands torn, by the exploded glass, and a 
ghastly wound on his forehead. He did not seem in the 
least alarmed, and, observing his wife’s fright, simply said: 

“ It’s nothing. The mixture was a little too strong, and 
the thing burst.” 

“ But you’re hurt,” cried Conchita, wiping the blood 
from his face. 

“ Only a scratch. Anyway, it’s all right, as I discovered 
what I was looking for. And that, too, by a lucky acci- 
dent. It was the simplest thing in the world, and I only 
wonder that I didn’t think of it before. But that’s usually 
the way. If half the inventors would only tell the truth 
they would admit that most of their success was the result 
of chance. Chance is the god of science.” 

“ But,” exclaimed Conchita, “you came near losing your 
life ! How imprudent you are ! ” 

“ Ah ! my dear, what is my life in comparison with the 
preservation of the lives of thousands of others ? But it is 
getting cold. I have no more to do. Let us go to bed.” 


92 


The Separation. 

The next day he sent for one of the most noted drug- 
gists in Paris, and offered him the newly-discovered mix- 
ture at a very low figure. The bargain was quickly closed 
between the scientist who worked in the cause of humanity, 
and the merchant who worked to put more money in his 
pocket. This powerful disinfectant produced the results 
anticipated, and the mortality in the hospitals the follow- 
ing week was reduced by one-half. 

The activity of Rameau, during this trying period, was 
manifested in the most various ways. After having de- 
voted himself, with intense ardor, to a discovery of general 
use, he now turned his attention to a special case. A scout 
who had his knee shattered by a ball, in a reconnoissance, 
was brought to the Vincennes asylum, turned into a hos- 
pital by Talvanne. The projectile had entered the calf of 
the leg, penetrated the bone, and fractured the knee-cap. 
All the surgeons recommended amputation. But the 
wounded man was young, and not at all resigned to losing 
his limb. Rameau sympathized with him, and undertook 
to save the threatened member. He succeeded, but it was 
regarded as a miracle of skill and care. One day, when 
the wounded man was able to limp around, he said to Ra- 
meau: 

Doctor, you have acted the part of God to me.” 

Rameau smiled, and answered: 

“ Yes, my brave fellow.” 

And, after a moment’s silence, he turned around and said 
to Talvanne: 

“ If there was no one but God to mend broken legs, the 
manufacturers of crutches would be all millionaires.” 

“ It is Rameau who mends broken legs, but it is God who 
has made Rameau,” gravely answered Talvanne. 

The doctor looked at him, and jocosely asked: 

“ Are you sure of that ? ” 

“ Yes, except it was the devil who made you, and I 
wouldn’t be surprised if it was.” 

u Change the subject ; here comes my wife.” For it 


93 


The Separation . 

must be told, Conchita had shaken off her habitual indo- 
lence, and, in her way, rivalled the doctor in her good 
work. Her charity was manifested every day in succoring 
the needy and tending the wounded. She spent several 
hours daily in the hospitals, soothing the dying and praying 
at the bedside of the dead. Her piety had ceased to be a 
luxury. And Rameau, with a secret tenderness of feeling, 
followed his wife in the exercise of her comforting mission, 
happy in the radiant sunshine that her beauty shed around 
her in those dark days. 

Rameau, Talvanne, and Conchita dined every evening in 
the Rue Saint-Dominique. The disasters of this lamenta- 
ble time had drawn closer the bonds of their friendship, 
and when, after an excursion to the zone of the forts, 
in the midst of the advance posts, the doctor returned 
tired and chilled, it was a delight for him to find his wife 
and daughter and Talvanne awaiting him in the warm and 
cheerful dining-room. To be removed from the horrors 
of battle, from the ambulances filled with the'groaning 
wounded, to leave the sight of the snow that enveloped the 
city like a great shroud, and to come into his house and 
enjoy for a few hours the company of those so dear to him, 
was happiness indeed. 

Little Adrienne, more favored than so many other chil- 
dren, under the privations of the siege, grew, and was 
happy. And her blue eyes and blonde hair lit up for Ra- 
meau the dark and desolate future. He used to sit down 
in the evenings at the corner of the fire, with his little 
daughter on his knee, listening to her childish babble, and 
caressing her with those brawny hands over which so 
much blood flowed every day. 

In the midst of his numerous preoccupations, one thought 
continued to trouble Rameau — what had become of Mun- 
zel ? He often spoke of him, without remarking the forced 
silence of Conchita and Talvanne. He expressed the most 
anxious surmises concerning him. Frantz, like all the 
Germans, had served in the army, and before the war he 


94 


The Separation. 


was an officer in the landwehr. What had become of him ? 
In what country was he when the news of the war reached 
him ? What did he do ? Was he called home ? If so, did 
he remain in Germany ? Or had the necessities of the 
campaign brought him into France? 

Talvanne received all these conjectures with an indiffer- 
ent air. 

“ Don’t trouble yourself about him,” he said. “ Munzel is 
too shrewd to expose himself to danger. He is in some safe 
spot, taking advantage of the war to get ideas for military 
pictures. He is a practical coon, who knows how to utilize 
massacre and make money out of destruction. You are 
very kind to worry so much about him. I am sure he does 
not worry much about us.” 

This time, Conchita, wh6 hitherto had not uttered a word 
when Talvanne attacked Frantz in her presence, arose pale 
and agitated, her voice trembling with emotion. 

“ What you say is unworthy of you,” she cried. “ I can- 
not understand how my husband can listen to you with 
patience. As for me I cannot listen to it longer.” 

And taking up her child in her arms, as if she did not 
wish to let the infant hear Talvanne’s denunciation of 
Munzel, she passed out of the room. Talvanne lowered 
his look before the questioning glance of Rameau, and re- 
gretting his forgetfulness in talking so frankly, he adroitly 
changed the topic of conversation, and after a quarter of 
an hour bade his friend good-night and withdrew. 


i 


A Tragic Meeting, 


95 


CHAPTER VI. 

A TRAGIC MEETING. 

For three months Paris had been besieged, reduced to 
the verge of starvation, without fuel, and, worse than all, 
deprived of all news from the provinces. What took place 
in the intrenched camp of the Germans was a problem that 
everybody was trying to solve, without success. Surmises 
of every kind were entertained, elucidated, from time to time, 
by the finding of a German journal in the pocket of some of 
the enemy’s dead. And this news only brought the account 
of fresh disasters, of the retreat of the relieving armies, so 
anxiously awaited, amid the snow and frost, along the 
roads blocked by fugitives, of prisoners captured by the 
thousand in a skirmish, and the thirty thousand in a battle, 
until the Germans, tired of gathering in the broken and 
disbanded defenders, let them escape, certain that they 
would recapture them on the morrow. And then, in the 
midst of these dismal pictures traced by the hand of the 
enemy, a sudden gleam of joy would flash from some par- 
agraph, telling of an advantage gained by some daring 
commander, and betraying, through the prejudiced account 
of the writer, a check or a defeat suffered by the invader. 
During those days one knew not whether to hope or de- 
spair. A stubborn struggle it was, but like that of a swim- 
mer in mid-ocean, with the waves raging around him, and 
his eyes seeking a horizon that he knew was not within his 
reach. 

And in proportion as the situation grew more serious, 
the resistance of the people of Paris grew more resolute 
and stoic. In the freezing garrets, misery reigned supreme 
and death mowed down the weak and the young. The 
pall of desolation grew blacker every day ; the suffering 
grew more intense ; the people murmured, complained, but 
never weakened for a moment. Along the streets, covered 
with muddy snow, lines of women could be seen at the 


A Tragic Meeting. 


9 6 

doors of the bakers’ and the butchers’ shops waiting pa- 
tiently for their rations of black bread and horse-flesh to 
be doled out to them. On the west side of the river the 
shells fell with a savage regularity. A corpse was removed 
from the pavement, a wounded passer-by was picked up, 
the street-gamin walking along stopped an instant to look 
at a pool of blood, resuming his song as he passed on, and 
the besieger outside continued the slaughter. The city, 
so given to pleasure, had quickly grown habituated to 
pain. And now it slept, rocked by the roar of cannon, as 
it had hitherto by the gay refrains of the theatres, balls, 
and concerts. 

Inaction was what weighed most heavily on the besieged 
The suspense of waiting, under the rain of fire from the 
German batteries, was more painful to endure than the 
tumultuous dash of a bloody sortie. But fights were rare. 
The government seemed to have reserved the forces con- 
fined in Paris, for a supreme occasion, vaguely expected 
and never coming. The impatience of the populace gave 
way to irritation. Dark rumors were heard in the suburbs. 
An uprising had taken place on the 31st of October, and it 
became evident that if they did not fling the Parisian forces 
against the Germans, they would turn and fight one an- 
other. 

It was near the close of November ; the weather had 
grown still colder, and winter seemed to have joined hands 
with the enemy. The soldiers were frozen dead in the 
trenches. Dark despair settled down on the doomed city. 
It was necessary to revive by battle those unfortunates 
benumbed by inertia and weakened by famine. A sudden 
movement, a dull grating of the machine of defence an- 
nounced that important events were at hand. For three 
days the rumor had been noised in the city that the army 
of the Loire had made an advance movement, and that the 
Paris garrison was to make a sortie in conjunction with its 
attack. 

On November 30th bridges were thrown across the 


9 7 


A Tragic Meeting. 

Marne, and the forts poured a deluge of fire on the Ger- 
man lines. Meantime, a determined advance was made 
toward Villiers and Champigny, bringing sixty thousand 
French into collision with the bulk of the Saxon and Wur- 
temberg forces, massed on the heights. The shock was 
severe and the enemy fell back. The weather was magnif- 
icent and the frost gleamed on the hills under the bright 
winter sun. The roar of the artillery rang out in the dry 
air, and the smoke rose in steamy clouds. The troops 
were marching hurriedly along the streets of Vincennes. 
The corps engaged had pressed forward from the ground 
occupied in the beginning of the action, and reinforce- 
ments were being continually hurried forward. 

Rameau, who at the beginning of the affair, placed his 
ambulance service at Sa’int Maur, was impatiently pacing 
up and down in the yard of a candle-factory, the walls and 
roof of which had been battered by the bombardment. Tal- 
vanne, seated on a bench, was calmly smoking, leaving his 
aides to attend the first of the wounded who were brought 
in. A large number of Germans were among them. The 
rapidity with which their advance posts had been attacked 
and driven back left a great many of their wounded with- 
in the ground held by the French. They lay stoically, 
looking forward, as if awaiting the return of their own 
forces, after recovering from the suddenness of the shock. 

But the French held the advantage they had gained. 
Messengers arrived in quick succession with the news of 
the battle. A Wurtemberg regiment had been almost 
annihilated by the 113th of the Line. All who were not 
killed or wounded had been taken prisoners. Lines of 
prisoners already began to file past. In the midst of the 
din and roar of battle, and where the artillery poured in 
its hottest fire, a general, spare and slim, with snow r -white 
hair, arrived, surrounded by his staff, and with an angry 
gesture proceeded to rally the retreating troops. 

He then disappeared through the trees, as suddenly as 
he came. Rameau, having arranged his ambulance ser- 


98 


A Tragic Meeting . 

vice, remained near the scene of battle. He stood mo- 
tionless, his ears filled with the hoarse roar of the cannon 
in the distance. Impelled by anxiety to know how the 
affair was going, he pressed forward and ascended the 
slope in front of him. Suddenly a view of the battle- 
ground met his eye, and he stood and gazed on the scene. 

At his feet a battalion of the National Guards was lying 
down, sheltered by a knoll against the projectiles hurled 
toward the spot by the enemy. Its commander, a man of 
huge stature, was sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree, 
mechanically tapping his boot with his sabre, while his 
horse with loose bridle was greedily browsing on the suc- 
culent branches. A few hundred yards ahead, a battery 
of six pieces was firing with furious rapidity at some un- 
seen point. 

The lines of the reserves stretched along the Marne, 
drawn up outside the demarcation line of danger. Ra- 
meau looked in vain for those episodes that painters and 
poets love to trace — cavalry dashes, regiments of infantry 
charging one another, heroic tumult, sublime slaughter, 
presenting an ineffaceable spectacle. But he saw nothing 
of these artistic representations. 

From out a thick smoke, a cluster of small dark objects, 
resembling a swarm of flies, appeared in the far distance. 
He could see them climbing their way to the top of the 
hill Several times they ascended, and retreated down 
again. He could not exactly make out what it all meant. 
It was the famous attack of the Zouaves on Champigny. 
These brave soldiers dashed to the assault of the crenated 
walls, and under an avalanche of cannon-fire were whirled 
around like leaves in a storm. A quarter of an hour after- 
ward, having re-formed, they again started on their mortal 
ascent. It was this going and coming repeatedly that Ra- 
meau was unable to understand. The battle raged mur- 
derously at this spot, and the wounded began moving in 
crowds over the valley leading toward the Marne. A fear- 
ful din, made by the continued roar of the cannon and 


99 


A Tragic Meeting, 

the sharp crackle of the musketry, came up from every 
spot of that plain where, while it was impossible to dis- 
cern clearly what was taking place there, a hundred and 
fifty thousand were engaged in deadly battle. 

A hand placed on Rameau’s shoulder called his attention 
from the terrible scene, and, turning around, he beheld 
Talvanne, pale and agitated. 

“ I have come after you,” he said, excitedly. 

“What is the matter? You look so troubled!” said 
Rameau, with an anxious look. 

Talvanne, who had appeared to be in such a hurry to 
speak, now stopped short as if he had suddenly discovered 
an abyss, and continued silent. 

“What has happened ?” asked Rameau, now growing 
apprehensive at the silence of his friend. 

Talvanne answered, with an embarrassed air : 

“ You must come. The ambulances are crowded. We 
will have to embark the wounded on river boats in order 
to get them to the city.” 

“ Can’t you give orders to do what is needed, and ” 

“Your presence is necessary,” interrupted Talvanne; 
“ you must come.” 

“Well,” replied Rameau, with an air of inquietude. 
And without saying more he descended toward the village. 
After a few moments he again asked : 

“ Is anything wrong ? ’ If so, I would much rather you 
would tell me.” 

Talvanne drew a long breath, and replied slowly : 

“ Well, a great many wounded Germans have been 
brought in to us, and among them ” 

Rameau grasped his friend’s arm, and exclaimed : 

“ Munzel ? ” 

Talvanne made no reply, but looked downward. 

« Is he dead ? ” 

“ No, but he is dangerously wounded.” 

Rameau hastened to the field-hospital. He reached it 
in a few moments, and, elbowing his way through the 


100 


A Tragic Meeting. 

throng, he rushed into the yard where the wounded were 
lying on straw mattresses, the inside of the building being 
crowded. 

“Where is he ? ” he asked, as if any of those around him 
knew the subject of his anxiety. Talvanne, whom he left 
behind, now arrived. He took his friend by the arm, and, 
leading him to a little outhouse that was used to shelter 
the watchman of the factory, he opened the door and mur- 
mured : 

“ There it is.” 

Rameau advanced and halted near the threshold, over- 
come by the horror of the scene before his eyes. Within 
a space of a few square yards ten men were stretched, 
maimed and blood-stained, moaning piteously. The blood 
had soaked through the straw and flowed along the floor in 
dark, coagulating streams. It was officers who had been 
taken into this shelter, under the guard of a Prussian cor- 
poral who was wounded by a bullet in the jaw, and who, 
seated on a wooden block, was nursing his torn cheek in 
his hand. 

“ Munzel ?” cried Rameau, addressing him excitedly. 

The corporal rose, gave the military salute, and with 
difficulty answered : 

“ I do not know him. Is he a captain ?” 

One of the wounded men rose on his elbow, and, with- 
out speaking, pointed to a corner of the narrow room 
where a body, covered by a military overcoat, was 
stretched. Rameau nervously leaned over, lifted up the 
garment, and at once recognized his friend, who lay with 
his head thrown back, his eyes closed, and his face livid. 
He glanced around, and, seeing Talvanne standing near, 
made a sign to him to approach. Then, addressing the 
corporal, he said : 

“Come here. Take him under the shoulders, and lift 
him up.” 

And as he could not see quite clearly, and feeling over- 
powered with the stuffy atmosphere, he burst open a win- 


IOI 


A Tragic Meeting. 

dovv-pane, drew a heavy "breath of fresh air, and, getting 
down on his knees, proceeded to examine his friend. A 
large, brown spot, now dried, showed through his shirt near 
the waist. Rameau tore it open, and discovered, to his 
horror, beneath the ribs, a hole from which the blood 
slowly oozed, made by a chassepot bullet. The missile re- 
mained in his body. 

He called on Talvanne to assist him, and, laying his case 
of instruments on the block beside him, he took a probe 
and began to search for the bullet. The wound was deep, 
and the doctor’s countenance assumed a troubled aspect. 
He took another and longer probe, and continued to search 
the terrible wound. A tremor passed through the body of 
the wounded man, and a sigh of pain issued from his lips. 

“Can you feel the missile?” asked Talvanne, without 
even looking at Munzel, who now tossed on his miserable 
pallet. 

“ No, I cannot find it. The wound is a deep one. It 
would be impossible to extract the bullet without perform- 
ing laparotomy, and nine times out of ten that operation 
is fatal.” 

“What course did the bullet take ?” 

“ It has gone around the liver and lodged in the abdo- 
men.” 

Talvanne shook his head, but asked no more questions. 
He comprehended the gravity of the wound, and gave 
Munzel up for lost. The doctor, kneeling beside his friend, 
looked on in despair. The eyes of the wounded man con- 
tinued closed, and though the flesh quivered at the touch 
of the steel, it was only a nervous movement, for the brain 
was benumbed and unconscious. 

“He does not recover consciousness and may smother,” 
remarked Talvanne. “There must be an internal hemor- 
rhage. You see, the wound is scarcely wet.” 

“ Let us bleed him,” said Rameau. “ It is the only chance 
of preventing his death within an hour. If we can prolong 
his life until to-morrow — who knows? 


102 


A Tragic Meeting . 

And he looked at his friend with the confidence of a man 
accustomed to perform miracles. Talvanne, with the sub- 
mission of an assistant, tore his handkerchief into bands, 
compressed the arm, and, handing a lance to Rameau, said: 

“ Do it yourself ; let him have the benefit of your usual 
good luck.” 

After a while, a sigh of relief escaped from the wounded 
man, his eyelids twitched, and his eyes opened. This look, 
vague at first, wandered over the white walls of the build- 
ing, and on the pallets where his suffering companions lay. 
A shadow seemed to pa'ss over his countenance. Con- 
sciousness returned to him ; he began to understand how 
he came to be there, stretched helpless, and burning with 
intense agony. The fresh air from the window revived 
him, and his ears were filled by the terrific roar of the ar- 
tillery. He attempted to rise, and was assisted by a pair 
of friendly hands. He looked upward, and, leaning over 
him, as when sick long ago, he recognized the anxious face 
of Rameau. His face grew livid, his features contracted, 
and he trembled visibly. 

“Frantz!” cried the doctor, overcome with emotion. 
“ My poor friend, I am sorry to see you thus.” 

At these words, flowing from the heart of him by whom 
he had been so sincerely loved, the wounded man uttered 
a sigh, his eyes expressed an intense anguish, he clasped 
his hands, as if in supplication, and, in a feeble voice, mur- 
mured: 

“Rameau! Heaven had ordained, then, that I should 
not die without seeing you once more.” 

“ Come, I will try to save you,” answered the doctor, 
placing his trembling hands on his friend’s head. “Yes, 
you will live ! ” 

Munzel smiled faintly, and replied in a low voice: 

“ Now that you have seen me, it would be a misfortune.” 

He fainted away again, and a purple color tinged his 
cheeks. Rameau approached him once more, and said to 
Talvanne: 


103 


A Tragic Meeting. 

“ He breathes. We must remove him to your place. 
He will be better off there. We have no litter to carry him. 
Let us take my carriage. We can walk.” 

They were no longer alone in the little room. An assist- 
ant-surgeon, followed by two attendants, passed along the 
line of wounded. Mingled oaths and groans rose from 
every side, while the rattle of knives explained the tortures 
these unfortunates were suffering. Amputated limbs were 
thrown out the door, filling with horror those who were 
brought in. In the yard, French and Germans were heaped 
pell-mell, and their numbers were constantly increasing. 
And the crowded, yellow omnibuses, on whose sides were 
painted in large letters the words “ Madeleine-Bastille,” 
with wrecks of the slaughter, moved toward the Marne. 

“ We are going to make way for you,” said Rameau, ad- 
dressing the assistant-surgeon. “ Give me two men to re- 
move this wounded officer.” 

“ Two men, my dear sir ! But where am I to get them ? 
Our litter-carriers are engaged in binding up the wounded. 
We are completely overwhelmed. But are you about to 
go away ? ” 

“ Come, Talvanne,” said the doctor, without awaiting a 
reply, “ let us do it ourselves.” 

And, one taking hold of Munzel by the legs, and the 
other under the arms, they started. About a hundred 
yards ahead, under a clump of trees, Rameau’s carriage, 
bearing an ambulance flag, was awaiting them. They laid 
the still unconscious man on the cushions. 

“ Get up beside the driver, and hasten to Vincennes. Do 
not leave him for a moment. My place is here. There is 
too much need of me to think of going now.” 

He shook Talvanne’s hand warmly, saying: 

“ I depend on you ; do what is necessary. And if anything 
happens, send for me without delay. It is not likely that I 
can leave here before evening. But duty before all things.” 

“ Do not be uneasy ” replied Talvanne ; “ everything 
possible will be done. But hurry back to your work.” 


104 


A Tragic Meeting . 

The carriage started, and Rameau, deeply grieved, re- 
turned to his post of duty. In the evening, when darkness 
had separated the two contending armies, a little order 
was established in the ambulance service. The French 
troops camped on the ground won from the Germans, and 
their fires covered the hills that the besiegers had occupied 
the night before. An icy wind shook the tall poplars on 
the banks of the Marne, and the wagons, laden with mu- 
nitions, rolled noisily over the hardened soil. A great 
movement of troops was going on, and everything indi- 
cated that the sortie, so auspiciously begun, would be 
pushed to its conclusion on the following day. 

Leaving his ambulances almost entirely emptied, Ra- 
meau hastened to Vincennes on foot, in the midst of the 
patrols, convoys, and commissariat trains. On reaching 
the bridge he had to make himself known, as no one was 
allowed to go to the rear. A regiment of those raw mobiles 
that the older generals treated with such contempt, and who 
had valiantly vindicated their worth, was camped on both 
sides of the road. On the other side of the river, sailors 
from the forts were putting in place pieces of heavy artil- 
lery intended to shell the heights occupied by the enemy. 
Engineers were on a raft examining with attention a rising 
of the water that threatened to sweep away the bridges of 
boats thrown across near Nogent. 

Rameau, feverish and fatigued, trembled with the cold. 
He hastened his steps in the direction of Talvanne’s asy- 
lum. He reached Joinville, and through the trees in the 
park, discerned the lights in his friend’s dwelling. The 
entrance gates were open, and his unhitched carriage was 
standing in the centre of the yard. He mounted the steps, 
and crossing the vestibule entered Talvanne’s office without 
rapping. On seeing him, a woman quickly rose, and Ra- 
meau recognized Conchita. She remained standing before 
him, silent, and with such a troubled look, that Rameau, 
thinking of Munzel only, cried out : 

“Am I too late ? ” 


io5 


A Tragic Meeting, , 

“ No,” she replied in a sad tone. “ I was at the hospital 
when they brought him in. He was then unconscious, but 
soon revived/’ 

At the same moment Talvanne appeared. 

“ Ah ! it is you, at last. He has asked for you twice 
already.” 

Talvanne and Conchita exchanged looks. The young 
woman smiled bitterly, and in a low voice said : 

“ It is you he wishes to see. No one else but you.” 

“ Where is he ? ” 

The two physicians went out, leaving Conchita alone in 
the room. If Rameau had looked closely in his wife’s face, 
he would have been surprised at the change it had under- 
gone. But his thoughts were only of the wounded man. 
At the end of a corridor, Talvanne opened a door, and 
making the doctor pass on before him, said : 

“ There.” 

“ Ah ! you have installed him in your own room,” ex- 
claimed Rameau feelingly. “ How good you are, Tal- 
vanne ! ” 

He pressed his friend’s hand so affectionately that the 
latter could scarce restrain his tears. Munzel lay under 
the bed-curtains, which had been raised to let the air circu- 
late more freely. His face looked like wax in the light of 
the lamp. His eyes were open. His mouth was drawn in 
a forced smile, and he feebly moved his head on the pillow. 

“ Do not stir,” said Rameau, taking hold of his wrist, 
which he found to be quite cold. His pulse beat slowly. 
He raised the covers, opened the shirt, examined the wound, 
and found it inflamed and swollen. 

The doctor dressed the wound again, and sat down at 
the foot of the bed with a tranquil air. Munzel did not 
lose sight of him, trying to divine an assurance of recovery 
or a sentence of death in the face of him whom he believed 
to be infallible in his profession. 

“ You are getting quite well,” said Rameau, “ but you 
suffer a great deal ; I must try to ease your pain.” 


106 A Tragic Meeting \ 

He arose, and approaching Talvanne, who was standing 
beside the fireplace, said to him in a low voice, with chill- 
ing calmness : 

“ He is gone. Peritonitis has set in ; he will not last 
twelve hours. I will put him to sleep with morphine." 

And as Talvanne lowered his look, the doctor added : 

“ Disguise your feelings ; he is observing us. Let us at 
least spare him mental anguish. Go and bring everything 
needed." 

Talvanne went out, gave instructions to one of his assist- 
ants, and went back to the cabinet to see Conchita. 

“Well?” she asked, abruptly rising, and looking into 
the face of her husband’s friend with searching glance ; 
“ do not conceal anything from me, I beg of you." 

“ Well, the doctor thinks there is no hope." 

Conchita clasped her hands convulsively, completely 
overcome. She and Talvanne remained motionless, in the 
middle of the room, overwhelmed as if the whole future 
had been precipitated on them in an instant. Conchita 
first recovered her presence of mind, and in a heart-rending 
voice, careless of being heard, forgetful of everything but 
her trouble, said : 

“ Oh ! I wish to see him. I do not want him to die witn- 
out speaking to him." 

“ Your husband is with him." 

“ What matters it ? I wish to see him." 

“ You are losing your senses." He looked in her face 
sternly, and continued : “You know, besides, that he him- 
self, a while ago, would not allow me to let you enter his 
room." 

“ But he did not know he was going to die ! " 

“ He does not know it yet, and he will not know it. The 
doctor wishes that he shall pass from life to death without 
any physical suffering, without any mental pain. He will 
sink to sleep, believing that he will wake up again." 

“And then, the salvation of his soul?" exclaimed Con- 
chita, with distraction. “ No consolation, no word of hope. 


107 


A Tragic Meeting . 

no priest ? It is my husband who is responsible for that, 
is it not ? Ah ! let him be an atheist on his own account, 
but not in regard to others. It is monstrous to act in such 
a manner. But he has not the right to effect the damna- 
tion of that unfortunate soul. I do not wish him to do it. 
No, no ; it shall not be ! ” 

“ Go, then, and tell it to himself,” replied Talvanne 
gravely. 

She made a gesture of resolute determination, and said : 

“ I will go.” 

“ Be careful ! ” 

“ Do you believe anything can stop me ? ” 

And she started down the corridor. He followed her, 
terrified at the storm he foresaw. A little salon intervened 
between the chamber where the dying man lay. She 
stopped there breathless, and waited, standing before the 
door. In the adjoining room the steps of Rameau and 
the tinkling of the vials could be heard. A tremor of im- 
patience passed through her. 

“What is he giving him ?” she whispered. “ He is about 
to stupefy his reason, to benumb his conscience. I must 
speak to him, — I must ! ” 

She reached forward her hand, when the door opened 
and Rameau appeared. Talvanne glided in to the wound- 
ed man’s pillow, leaving the husband and wife together. 

“Well?” she questioned. 

Rameau, with sorrowing look, and in a broken voice, 
answered : 

“ He is going to sleep.” 

“To sleep,” cried Conchita, “that is to die?” , 

“ Yes, since human science is powerless to save him.” 

“ And that is the science of which you are so proud ! ” 
exclaimed Conchita with asperity. “ It does not even af- 
ford you the means of saving a dear friend. And it is to 
such incapacity, to such infirmity, that you have erected 
an altar on the ruins of all belief. Ah ! ah ! to die ! Any 
one can let a man die. God alone can make him live ! ” 


108 A Tragic Meeting. 

Rameau, with gloomy brow, listened without making 
any reply. 

Conchita continued : 

“ Have you told your friend that he must implore God 
to save him ? Did you tell him that his life was in dan- 
ger and that it was time he should make preparation for 
the salvation of his soul ? Did you offer to bring a priest 
to his bedside ? He is a Christian, a believer. Have you 
thought of all that?” 

“ Yes,” replied Rameau in a deliberate, firm voice. 

“ Then what are you going to do ? ” 

“ I am going to let him pass out of life peacefully.” 

“That is what Talvanne has told me. But have you any 
right to act thus ? ” 

“I take it.” 

“You will be the cause of his damnation.” 

“ If Munzel appears before a supreme judge, he will not 
have to fear his anger. He has lived the life of a good 
man, and he can depart in peace.” 

At these words Conchita trembled with angry emotion, 
the horror of the criminal recollection being visible in her 
eyes. 

“What do you know about it ? ” she replied. 

He looked at her with astonishment, but she continued : 

“ Did he confess it all to you ? Have you been informed 
of the circumstances connected with the latter part of his 
life? You are bold to affirm, as usual.” 

He knit his brow, and seemed to be taken with a sudden 
anxiety. 

“ Did he have the confidence to tell you what he would 
have concealed from me ? ” 

“ It is not a question of what he could reveal or conceal, 
to us or to others,” she answered resolutely, “ but of what 
he might wish to confess in his last moments. Ah ! I 
know that to you, free-thinker as you are, these practices 
are ridiculous. But for us Christians, they are capital and 
decisive. Reject the succor of religion for yourself, if you 


A Tragic Meeting. 109 

are so deceived, in the supreme hour, but do not deprive, 
by your own authority, one of your fellow-men of that 
which will sweeten the close of his life, render the path- 
way of death easy, and secure to him the entrance into eter- 
nal happiness. You are not the master of another’s con- 
science, you cannot substitute your will for his own, and 
in lending yourself to such a moral tyranny, you commit 
a crime, and a monstrous crime at that.” 

“ Let it be so ; I accept the responsibility of it. If your 
God exists, let him punish me and absolve my friend.” 

“Your blasphemy is shocking,” cried Conchita, “when 
death is so close to you.” 

“ Death,” replied Rameau with profound sadness. “ Yes, 
that is what fills even the stoutest hearts with terror. And 
yet, is it not the end of all our miseries ? Ah ! poor friend, 
you are writhing with pain and racked with agony. I 
am told that I ought to double your cruel physical torture 
by the addition of a horrible moral anguish. Now that 
you desire the cessation of your suffering, I am asked to 
prolong it to your last breath. But rest easy, I will not 
consent to do it. You are about to sink to sleep, dear 
friend, and it will be for you the beginning of repose. I 
will have compassion for your suffering, and instead of 
prolonging it, I will make it end in ecstasy. I do not 
know what is reserved for you beyond the grave, but I will 
at least procure you all the comfort I can on this side of it. 

I do not wish to read the terror of the unknown in your eyes. 
You are about to sleep, and when you awaken, if awaken 
you will, you will then understand how much I loved you !” 

At this moment Rameau appeared transfigured to the 
eyes of Conchita. The fervor of his friendship shone re- 
splendent on his face. There was in his look the radiance 
of a faith almost divine. He was ready to endure any 
punishment for his dying friend. His tenderness lent him 
a moral strength that no power could overcome. He was 
certain that he acted for the best. Armed with such a 
conviction, such a man could not be conquered. 


IIO 


A Tragic Meeting . 

He advanced a step toward the wounded man’s cham- 
ber, but Conchita flung herself before him. If he was 
determined, she was transported ; their respective convic- 
tions were about to clash at the last moment. She under- 
stood that he had successfully resisted her and that her 
cause was lost. Her dark eyes flashed, angry and menac- 
ing, and seizing her husband’s arm, she said : 

“ Listen to me seriously. What is now taking place be- 
tween you and me is more important than you can im- 
agine. It is not a question of the caprice of a woman 
impelled by an extravagant faith. Understand me well : 
the man who is about to die must not surrender his soul 
to God without first being absolved of his sins. He must 
repent.” 

“ Of what is be guilty ? Do you know ? ” 

“Yes, Ido!” 

“And how ? ” 

“ That does not concern you. But I know it ! ** 

“Then tell it to me in confidence.” 

She gazed in his face, terror-stricken. 

“To you ? ” 

“Yes. I shall weigh the matter in my conscience, and 
see if the offence deserves the terrible chastisement of the 
agony you would inflict on the unfortunate man. And if 
it does, I promise that you will have satisfaction. Come, 
speak out.” 

Conchita’s lips trembled. Pressed between her solici- 
tude for her own safety and her anxiety for the salvation 
of Munzel, she was on the point of confessing all to her 
husband. A deadly pallor overspread her cheeks, her eyes 
swam, as if she was about to faint. She lost all conscious- 
ness of the real. Overcome by a hallucination, she saw 
nothing around her but a funereal darkness, lit up here and 
there by tongues of flame that seemed to her the fires of 
hell. The voices of the demons seemed to ring in her 
ears, “Do not speak,” answered by the chant of the ce- 
lestial choirs : “ Sacrifice yourself so that he may be saved.” 


Ill 


A Tragic Meeting, 

Carried away by this transport of feeling, she murmured : 

“ Well, since you wish ” 

But the sentiment of self-preservation returned to her, 
and the horror of confession restrained her. She saw 
clearly once more ; she found herself alone with her hus- 
band, who gazed at her in astonishment, and she nervously 
continued : 

“Are you a priest to hear a confession ? ” 

Rameau smiled sadly and said : 

“ I have nothing to hear, because you have nothing to 
reveal to me. You are simply carried away by your exag- 
gerated zeal. Do not weary me any longer, and do not 
torment yourself as you are doing. Your faith leads you 
to excessive agitation, and you are unnerved by the trouble 
that weighs on us a I can understand it, and I excuse 
you as much as I commiserate you. Calm yourself, and 
leave me to my painful duty.” 

Conchita made no reply. She laughed nervously. Then 
raising her hand, as if to call heaven to witness, she said : 

“ Then you do not wish to do what I ask of you ? You 
refuse me that favor ? ” 

“ Yes, because I am more certain of the humanity, in the 
name of which I act, than you are of the divinity in the 
name of which you speak.” 

“ Be careful ; you wound me in the tenderest feelings of 
my soul.” 

“ When you shall have reflected on it, you will pardon 
me. 

She cried out angrily : 

w Never.” 

He replied coldly : 

“ Well, let it be so.” 

And as a heavy sigh came from the adjoining room, he 
said : 

“ Excuse me, I must go to my patient ; that is the most 
important thing now.” He opened the door, and passing 
by his wife, who stood motionless, he disappeared. She 


I 12 


A Tragic Meeting . 


remained where she stood a moment, dazed, crushed, and 
then falling on her knees, she exclaimed in an accent of 
supreme invocation : 

“ Oh, Almighty and eternal God, have mercy on him and 
forgive me, I beseech Thee ! ” 

And she remained, her head buried in her hands, deaf to 
all that passed around her, indifferent to everything but 
her prayer. Hours passed away, darkness gathered around, 
the silence was unbroken, and there she remained kneeling 
before the door of the room where the dying man lay. 

She afterward remembered vaguely that her husband 
came out of the room for an instant, and made her take a 
seat, encouraging her to banish her anxiety, and that Tal- 
vanne had remained with her a long time, without speak- 
ing a word, respecting her feelings, and regarding her with 
compassionate gaze. She had only a sort of hazy recollec- 
tion of all that followed her terrible struggle with her hus- 
band. It was like a hideous dream, full of pain and anguish. 
She remained still, her thoughts alternating from hope to 
despair. What severe expiation of her former offence ! 

But when she had recovered a little of her mental 
strength, and began to think more calmly, she no longer 
doubted. In face of the terrible mystery, the dark gulf 
into which he for whom she wept was about to disappear, 
there was no weakening of her faith, none of the terrors of 
uncertainty. She found in her meditation a new assurance, 
and she conceived a firmer hope that all those who have 
confessed and repented of their sins before dying would find 
life eternal. This idea sustained her, on seeing him whom 
she was about to lose expire in a state of grace. Then 
bending her head in all the depth of her humility, she im- 
plored the divine clemency with all her soul, and sought 
by continued prayer to obtain forgiveness for the guilty one. 

About two o’clock in the morning, she felt a hand gently 
placed on her shoulder. She looked up and beheld Tal- 
vanne, pale, grave, standing by her. She questioned him 
with a glance. He said nothing. She then gasped : 


13 


A Tragic Meeting . i 

“ Is it all over?” 

“ Yes, it is all over.” 

“ Without pain ? ” 

“ Without pain.” 

“ Without knowing he was going to die ?” 

“ Without knowing it.” 

She paused an instant, and then asked in a low tone : 

“ What were his last words ? ” 

“ He was in a state of semi-unconsciousness ; he slowly 
revived, and looking at your husband, who was about ad- 
ministering to him a soothing potion, he smiled as if feel- 
ing a great relief, and murmuring, 1 How good you are ! ’ 
expired.” 

She replied with evident grief : 

“ So his last word was for him ! ” She walked toward 
the room and entered. Rameau was sitting beside the 
bed, and turning to her, pointed to Munzel’s body, which 
was ghastly pale, as if all his blood had escaped from 
his fatal wound. He passed in silence into the adjoin- 
ing room. She fell on her knees, and prayed fervently, 
and then taking from her neck a little golden cross, and 
joining Munzel’s hands, placed the sacred emblem between 
the fingers, and turning to Talvanne said : 

“ Promise me that you will bury him thus.” 

“ It shall be done.” 

She then grew weak, and leaning on the arm of her faith- 
ful friend, burst into tears. She remained for some mo- 
ments in silent sorrow. Recovering her strength, she said : 

“ You think I weep for him. You are mistaken. He is 
now at peace; he is happy. The tears I shed are for 
myself.” 

And as Talvanne looked at her with bewilderment, she 
continued : 

“ I know what I am saying. I, a Christian, consented Vo 
marry an atheist, and deserved to suffer for it. See how 
every one who has come in contact with that man has been 
stricken. My mother has been taken away from me ; you 


Loss and Gain . 


1 14 

remember what I told you beside her death-bed. Now, 
Munzel’s turn has come. I shall go next. Talvanne, that 
man diffuses a moral poison around him. Be careful for 
yourself." 

And rising, with the gesture and voice of a prophetess, 
she repeated : 

“ It is I who shall go next.” 

And looking tearfully at Talvanne, who scarce knew 
what to say, she added : 

“ I want you to promise that when I shall be no more, 
you will not neglect my daughter, that you will love her, 
and bring her up a good Christian." 

“ Her father is a good man," replied Talvanne ; “ he will 
be sure to respect your will. But there is no danger of 
your dying, and it will be yourself probably that will close 
our eyes in death." 

“ But," she insisted, “ I want you to promise, otherwise 
I shall not be contented." 

“ Well, if it is necessary to your ease of mind I certainly 
promise what you desire." 

She uttered a sigh of relief, and once more kneeling be- 
side the bed engaged in prayer. 


I CHAPTER VII. 

LOSS AND GAIN. 

“ Well, how is the little one getting on ? " 

“ Oh ! a great deal better, mademoiselle, thanks to the 
care of your good father, whom heaven preserve for us, 
poor people. See how the operation has succeeded." 

The woman who spoke, tall, thin and pale, and clad in 
deep black, removed the bandage that covered the face of 
the child she carried in her arms, showing a pair of eyes 
Still red and sore, but sound in their azure limpidity. 

" When I think," she continued, “that but for him it 


Loss and Gain . 


US 

would have been blind ! — a poor little creature that, like 
its father, must work all its days for a living. What would 
have become of it but for the doctor? And so, mademoi- 
selle, I pray to God, night and morning, to bless you and 
grant you happiness.” 

“ Oh ! rather pray to Him to preserve papa’s health.” 

The young girl patted the cheek of the child with her 
dainty white hand, softly replaced the bandage, and with 
a pleasant smile took leave of the mother at the door. An 
old man came out now from the doctor’s office, decrepit, 
with an uneasy air, scanning a piece of paper on which a 
few hieroglyphic lines were traced. 

“ Is that your prescription ? ” asked the young girl. 

“ Yes, mademoiselle,” replied the old man. “ He has 
prescribed a great many things for me to-day. Treatment 
for the rich, but not for poor, starving people like me.” 

“ But you will get an order on the druggist.” 

“ The druggists receive us very badly, if it is a charity 
order,” insinuated the old man ; “ it would be much better 
for me if you would be kind enough to give me the money 
instead.” 

“ Yes, to go and drink it,” exclaimed an old lady with 
white hair and rubicund face, and the dress of a governess, 
who emerged suddenly from an adjoining room. “I know 
you, Pere Gillet, and you can’t palm off any of your stories 
on me. The other week you fooled mademoiselle into 
giving you ten francs, and that same evening you were 
brought home dead drunk. That is a nice way to cure 
your cough.” 

“ If one could say ” began the old man. 

“ Yes ; it is enough to disgust people in helping their 
needy fellow-men. To be sure, we do it on our own ac- 
count and not theirs. Otherwise ” 

“ Rosalie ! ” interrupted the young girl. 

“ Pshaw, Adrienne, I know what I say. Here, P£re 
Gillet, here is your order. Come again, if you want to see 
the doctor.” 


ii6 


Loss and Gain . 


She led the old man toward the door. As he left he 
saluted the young girl with an humble and disappointed 
air, and as he passed through the corridor, the trailing of 
his clogs could be heard on the flagstones. 

Adrienne and Rosalie remained in the parlor, panelled 
with oak, around which benches ran, worn smooth by the 
numbers of the unfortunate and sick, who came there two 
days in the week for free consultation and treatment by 
Dr. Rameau. The rays of the vernal sun poured in, like 
golden beams, through the window that opened on the 
garden. The perfumes of blooming lilacs rose sweet and 
penetrating, and the birds carolled merrily in the trees 
and flitted about amid the branches. An intoxicating 
sense of pleasure emanated from everything around, and 
the two women remained absorbed by the softness of the 
air and the brightness of the sun, drinking in the joyance 
of existence. 

They were recalled from their reverie by the noise of the 
opening door, and the entrance of an old man, with a long 
overcoat and a huge hat, from under which hung long, 
white hair, framing a fresh and smiling countenance. 

“ Ah ! my godfather,” joyously exclaimed Adrienne, rush- 
ing to meet him. 

Doctor Talvanne, for it was he, placed his hands on the 
young girl’s shoulders, looked in her face tenderly, ad- 
mired her rosy cheeks and blue eyes and golden hair, and 
said : 

“ How are you, my dear, this morning ? ” 

“Just as I am always.” 

“ Oh ! a doctor’s daughter is never ill. Any one can see 
how your papa takes care of you. Is he in ?” 

“ Yes. The free consultation hours are just over. Papa 
is in his office with Monsieur Servant.” 

“ Good ! I will take Robert’s place, and send him out 
to you. Will you like that ? ” 

“ Why, yes, of course.” 

Talvanne passed on and entered Rameau’s private office. 


Loss and Gain . 


ii ; 


Seated before a large desk covered with papers, books, and 
vials containing liquids of all colors, the doctor was dictat- 
ing notes to his pupil, who was bent over a table beside 
the window. 

Robert Servant, now twenty-eight years of age, was a 
handsome young man, of a calm and serious air, with dark 
features, black eyes, curling hair, and mustache. As to 
Rameau, it would have been difficult to recognize in him 
the man of the huge, athletic physique and lion-like head 
of former years, who impressed one so keenly by the bold 
hauteur of his looks and countenance. His large brow, 
now growing bare, was continually marked with the famous 
wrinkle, but it no longer indicated preoccupation or anger ; 
it was now the marked effect of suffering and sadness. 
The shaggy hair, which formerly floated like a mane, was 
now grown white and thin. His body, worn and emaciated, 
was bent over as he sat in his chair. His eyes alone, which 
still sparkled with the fires of genius, had not changed. 

He extended his nervous hand to Talvanne, and with a 
nod of the head indicated to his pupil that their business 
was finished. The young man rose silently, folded his pa- 
pers, and passed out. The two friends remained together. 

Sixteen years had gone by since the disasters of the war, 
and, as if the spring of Rameau’s happy destiny had been 
broken in that mournful year, sadness and misfortune had 
never since then been absent from his hearth. After hav- 
ing languished, wasted by an unknown malady, despite the 
care which her husband lavished on her, despite her resist- 
ance and struggle, for she dreaded death, Conchita had gone 
to rejoin her mother. And Rameau, prostrated like an oak 
under the woodman’s axe, had remained for several months 
a prey to an incurable misanthropy. 

Shut up in his house, scarcely ever going out of his office, 
retired even from the sight of the servants, attended to 
only by the faithful Rosalie, he lived with his daughter 
and Talvanne, mourning for his dead wife and cursing the 
science that had betrayed him. Never before did his 


Loss and Gain . 


ii ; 


Seated before a large desk covered with papers, books, and 
vials containing liquids of all colors, the doctor was dictat- 
ing notes to his pupil, who was bent over a table beside 
the window. 

Robert Servant, now twenty-eight years of age, was a 
handsome young man, of a calm and serious air, with dark 
features, black eyes, curling hair, and mustache. As to 
Rameau, it would have been difficult to recognize in him 
the man of the huge, athletic physique and lion-like head 
of former years, who impressed one so keenly by the bold 
hauteur of his looks and countenance. His large brow, 
now growing bare, was continually marked with the famous 
wrinkle, but it no longer indicated preoccupation or anger ; 
it was now the marked effect of suffering and sadness. 
The shaggy hair, which formerly floated like a mane, was 
now grown white and thin. His body, worn and emaciated, 
was bent over as he sat in his chair. His eyes alone, which 
still sparkled with the fires of genius, had not changed. 

He extended his nervous hand to Talvanne, and with a 
nod of the head indicated to his pupil that their business 
was finished. The young man rose silently, folded his pa- 
pers, and passed out. The two friends remained together. 

Sixteen years had gone by since the disasters of the war, 
and, as if the spring of Rameau’s happy destiny had been 
broken in that mournful year, sadness and misfortune had 
never since then been absent from his hearth. After hav- 
ing languished, wasted by an unknown malady, despite the 
care which her husband lavished on her, despite her resist- 
ance and struggle, for she dreaded death, Conchita had gone 
to rejoin her mother. And Rameau, prostrated like an oak 
under the woodman’s axe, had remained for several months 
a prey to an incurable misanthropy. 

Shut up in his house, scarcely ever going out of his office, 
retired even from the sight of the servants, attended to 
only by the faithful Rosalie, he lived with his daughter 
and Talvanne, mourning for his dead wife and cursing the 
science that had betrayed him. Never before did his 


Loss and Gain . 


ii ; 


Seated before a large desk covered with papers, books, and 
vials containing liquids of all colors, the doctor was dictat- 
ing notes to his pupil, who was bent over a table beside 
the window. 

Robert Servant, now twenty-eight years of age, was a 
handsome young man, of a calm and serious air, with dark 
features, black eyes, curling hair, and mustache. As to 
Rameau, it would have been difficult to recognize in him 
the man of the huge, athletic physique and lion-like head 
of former years, who impressed one so keenly by the bold 
hauteur of his looks and countenance. His large brow, 
now growing bare, was continually marked with the famous 
wrinkle, but it no longer indicated preoccupation or anger ; 
it was now the marked effect of suffering and sadness. 
The shaggy hair, which formerly floated like a mane, was 
now grown white and thin. His body, worn and emaciated, 
was bent over as he sat in his chair. His eyes alone, which 
still sparkled with the fires of genius, had not changed. 

He extended his nervous hand to Talvanne, and with a 
nod of the head indicated to his pupil that their business 
was finished. The young man rose silently, folded his pa- 
pers, and passed out. The two friends remained together. 

Sixteen years had gone by since the disasters of the war, 
and, as if the spring of Rameau’s happy destiny had been 
broken in that mournful year, sadness and misfortune had 
never since then been absent from his hearth. After hav- 
ing languished, wasted by an unknown malady, despite the 
care which her husband lavished on her, despite her resist- 
ance and struggle, for she dreaded death, Conchita had gone 
to rejoin her mother. And Rameau, prostrated like an oak 
under the woodman’s axe, had remained for several months 
a prey to an incurable misanthropy. 

Shut up in his house, scarcely ever going out of his office, 
retired even from the sight of the servants, attended to 
only by the faithful Rosalie, he lived with his daughter 
and Talvanne, mourning for his dead wife and cursing the 
science that had betrayed him. Never before did his 


1 1 8 


Loss and Gain. 


materialism appear more violent than during these first 
months of his mental affliction. He did not bend under 
the weight that crushed him ; he rebelled, and his pessimism 
overflowed in all its bitterness. He attributed to nature 
the misfortune that had befallen him ; he held mankind, 
himself included, responsible for it. He did not accuse 
God, for he did not believe in His existence. 

Talvanne, with angelic mildness, listened to these furious 
imprecations of his friend, bore his intolerant attacks, and 
endured his periods of silence, often prolonged for weeks 
at a time. He remained with him continually, indulgent 
as a brother and patient as a woman. He neglected, for 
his sake, the duties of his profession. When remonstrated 
with, he brusquely answered : 

“ The first duty of a friend is to take care of his friend. 
As long as Rameau will need my presence, the rest of 
humanity will have no existence for me.” 

And the doctor rewarded him for his devotedness by 
treating him with the utmost harshness. Not even in 
their youth, when his temper used to burst forth like a 
volcano, did he ever abuse him with such violence. And 
what the student with the blonde hair and smooth brow 
endured with difficulty, and often not without resentment, 
the member of the Medical Academy with the wrinkled 
forehead and whitened head now received without answer 
or murmur. 

He felt that these furious ebullitions eased the sore 
heart of his friend. When the torrent of anger had rolled 
for an hour, calm followed, and, as if ashamed of these 
transports of fury, Rameau sought to atone for them by 
the delicacy of his thoughts, and the charm of his expres- 
sions, in which all the radiant grandeur of his mind shone 
forth. He seemed to apologize by his change of manner, 
and to make amends to his friend for the harshness he 
had exhibited, by the soothing symphony of his speech. 
Then it would resemble a beautiful summer evening after 
a storm, when the placid sky is blue and serene, the at- 


Loss and Gain . 


119 

mosphere filled with a purer freshness, and the grass 
washed by the rains is of a brighter green. 

The good Talvanne greatly rejoiced at these changes, 
the value of which he thoroughly understood, and they 
gave him courage to endure future outbursts of violence. 
When Rameau’s temper became wholly uncontrollable, 
Talvanne had recourse to a supreme and irresistible ex- 
pedient : he brought little Adrienne into the doctor’s room. 
In presence of the pure and innocent face of his little 
daughter the dark anger of the father would melt into 
ecstasy. Immediately the harsh voice was subdued, the 
flashing eyes were lit by rays of tenderness only, and the 
sardonic lips took on a gracious smile. All anger and 
chagrin disappeared with an embrace and a kiss. 

The little girl was four years of age, and skipping 
around the large room, in the midst of the books, papers, 
and office paraphernalia, she lent to this gloomy chamber 
the gaiety of a lark. Without her, her father would not 
have been able to endure his suffering. She attached him 
to life once more, but she had not been able to fill up the 
void that death had made in his heart. This man, whose 
existence had been so bound up with thought, now felt his 
mind weak and spiritless. He who had worked so vigor- 
ously and with such pleasure, was now disgusted with all 
labor. 

He spent whole days seated in his chair, no longer be- 
fore his desk seeking the solution of some scientific prob- 
lem, but beside his window, gazing at the fleeting clouds 
in the vast expanse of sky that overspreads the Place des 
Invalides, or following the evolutions of the soldiers going 
through their daily drill. When night came, he rose, and 
seated himself by the corner of the fireplace, silent and 
lost in thought. 

Thinking of what? Talvanne knew, but was careful to 
abstain from touching on the subject lest he should provoke 
an outburst of anger. The husband dreamed continually 
of the young wife, and cursed the fate that had taken her 


120 


Loss and Gain. 


from him. When he spoke, impelled by the desire to give 
vent to his feelings, it was always the same recriminations: 
Why should that woman, beautiful, vigorous, happy, use- 
ful, only in her twenty-eighth year, be snatched away by 
death, when so many unfortunate, old, and decrepit per- 
sons, without friends or love of life, still be left to continue 
their miserable existence? What an atrocious injustice is 
this law of being, that dooms youth and beauty and spares 
decrepitude and senility ! 

“Explain that, you imbecile,” he would shout at Tal- 
vanne, “with your admirable order of nature, your final 
causes and divine will. Give me an acceptable solution of 
this infamous and monstrous problem : the young dying 
before the old, weakness triumphing over strength. Is 
that just? And if there is a God that permits such in- 
iquity, what do you think of such a God ?” 

Generally Talvanne would make no reply, but hang his 
head as if vanquished. But Rameau sometimes became 
so pale from his pent-up anger that his friend purposely 
engaged in a controversy, to give him an opportunity to 
pour out the flood of his fury. 

“Alas ! ” he would say mildly, “life is such a brief trial 
that it counts for little with God. Meantime this trial is 
so rude, that those whom He calls to Himself should be 
considered specially favored. You know well that all re- 
ligions, with paganism at the head, have regarded death 
as a heavenly favor. And those who survived the dear 
departed were consoled by the assurance that they would 
one day meet again.” 

“Yes! in the vague Elysian Fields, in a paradise, the 
very location of which is undetermined. Ah ! ah ! blind- 
ness and imposture!” Rameau would exclaim. “And 
under what appearance will they see one another again ? 
Human appearance? You know well that nothing of this 
body will remain after it rots in the tomb. Shall they 
meet as ghosts ? Horrible ! — better never meet at all. 
In vain do you ministers of religion lie ; that exquisite 


Loss and Gain . 


121 


form that I so tenderly adored, so radiant and beautiful, 
I shall never more see. That smile which charmed, and 
which shone with the joy of life, will beam on me no more. 
Those eyes, so soft and brilliant and tender, will never 
again thrill me with their looks. The loss I have suffered 
is irreparable. Pshaw ! you may talk to me of the prom- 
ises of your religion, but I have the misfortune of not be- 
lieving in it. The body of her who rendered me happy 
has been taken from me, the living bond that united her 
to me has been broken, and we are separated to meet no 
more.” 

He would then yield to an irresistible despondency, 
which made this man of powerful and vigorous physique 
as weak and irresolute as a child. Talvanne, grieved at 
this spectacle of physical and moral prostration, would re- 
main silent ; and then when the access of feeling was 
over, he would seize his friend’s hand, expressing by his 
kindly grasp, all the compassion and tenderness of his 
heart. 

“You see,” Rameau would say, with a melancholy smile, 
“ you have to deal with the most incurable of maniacs in 
me. Measure my head, feel it, examine it. It will be of 
use to you, who still believe in science and religion.” 

Silence would then follow, and the day or evening would 
pass without further incident. 

During this period Rameau received no patients, made no 
visits, and offered his resignation in the Sorbonne and 
Academy. The Faculty gave him an indefinite vacation, 
but his patients were not so considerate. Despite the rig- 
orous orders to the servants, parents, excited by the fear of 
losing their children, found means of gaining access to his 
rooms. He repelled them rudely, expressing with cynicism 
his implacable indifference for his fellow-men. 

“ You wish me to save your wife ? ” he would say. “ I 
have not been able to save my own. You have confidence 
in my diagnosis, in my experience. That is more than I can 
say myself. To-day I would not prescribe for my dog, if 


122 


Loss and Gain. 


it were sick, so little faith have I in the efficacy of science. 
Go home ; there is no virtue in medicine. Consult a char- 
latan, or do nothing. Both amount to the same thing. 
But let me have peace. How do your misery, your trouble, 
your suffering, concern me ? Let the world come to an 
end for all I care. The loss would not be as great as 
people imagine.” 

The rumor spread that his mind was unhinged since the 
death of his wife. And it was not far from the truth. 

This strange change that came over Rameau often 
alarmed Talvanne, who had had a long experience in the 
treatment of mental diseases, and he was obliged to admit 
that more than one of the inmates of his institution did 
not exhibit such oddity as his friend. The profound re- 
pugnance that Rameau experienced for everything that in 
any way related to a profession to which he had devoted 
his life, was a serious symptom. The alienist saw months 
go by without the doctor manifesting the least curiosity 
concerning what was passing in the scientific world. He 
who formerly read with avidity the treatises, articles, and 
theses published in Europe and America — everything, in 
short, that related to medicine — did not even break the 
wrapper of the Gazette Medicate , purposely placed under 
his eyes by Talvanne. 

Frequently, in the endeavor to elicit a spark of that fire 
that now seemed extinguished the alienist described recent 
operations that had been performed at the Ecole, and the 
experiments made at the Laboratory of Chemistry. He 
scanned Rameau s face ; he marked its impassibility, as if 
he had not comprehended what he had heard. He did 
comprehend, however ; for one day, as Talvanne was talk- 
ing, as usual, apropos of a new treatment for cancer com- 
mended by the professors of Berlin, he shrugged his shoul- 
ders and contemptuously exclaimed : 

“ Asses ! all asses ! If they had employed subcutaneous 
phenic injections they would have had a greater chance of 
success.” 


Loss and Gain. 


123 

“You think so?” replied Talvanne, earnestly, trying to 
spur him into conversation. 

But Rameau, with a contemptuous smile, said : 

“ Don’t you see, I am only ridiculing them.” 

And it was impossible to elicit another word from him. 
Talvanne began to ask himself if cerebral anaemia had not 
deprived Rameau of the faculty of thought, when an unex- 
pected event restored the great man to his former self. 
Madame Servant was taken ill, and her condition soon 
grew very serious. Talvanne informed Rameau of the 
circumstance. He said to him : 

“ I come from Madame Servant’s ; she is worse than she 
was yesterday. Richardet, who is attending her, visits her 
twice a day. He prescribes such and such things, but 
without any result.” 

On hearing of her illness Rameau simply exclaimed, 
“ Ah, I am sorry ! ” and every time that his friend spoke to 
him of the woman to whom he had shown all the gratitude 
that he owed his old patron, he shook his head sadly. One 
evening Talvanne said to him : 

“ What would you prescribe in such a case, doctor?” 

Rameau smiled sardonically and answered : 

“ How do I know ? And, besides, what good would it 
be?” 

As his friend insisted he silenced him rudely : 

“ Stop, you weary me.” 

He rose, paced the room nervously, as if to banish the 
emotion that he could not conceal, and in a few moments 
resumed his seat, and remained in silent contemplation. 
The following day Talvanne entered his friend’s office 
visibly excited, and, without sitting down, informed him 
that Madame Servant was considered beyond recovery at 
a consultation held during the afternoon. The physicians 
knew not what to do ; they had virtually given her up. 

“ As if they could do anything else,” sneered Rameau, 
without raising his head. 

This obstinate refusal to take any interest in a case that 


124 


Loss and Gain. 


appealed to him so strongly irritated Talvanne. He lost 
all patience and exclaimed : 

“Surely you cannot be insensible to what I have just 
told you ! It is a question of the death or recovery of the 
woman whose son you have adopted. She bears the name 
of your old patron, of the man who made you what you 
are — for, without him, what would you have been ? ” 

“ Perhaps a happy man.” 

“ Rameau,” replied Talvanne, “ you have suffered, you 
suffer now, and you will suffer more — that is the lot of all 
men. But are you going to hold the innocent responsible 
for your affliction ? Do you wish to make your fellow- 
men share the misfortune that has overtaken yourself? 
Will the sight of others’ sufferings alleviate your own ? I 
have always known you to be generous and brave. Are 
you now grown selfish and cowardly ? Do you understand 
me? What can I say in order to reach your heart? A 
woman is dying, and by saving her you can pay back a 
sacred debt. Will you do it ? ” 

Rameau looked up, the tears welled to his eyes, and his 
pale face flushed. He rose, straightened up his drooping 
shoulders, and in a voice that recalled his old-time energy 
replied : 

“You are right, Talvanne ; pardon me for my indiffer- 
ence ; I will go with you.” 

“Ah, you are yourself again ! ” exclaimed Talvanne in a 
transport of joy, grasping the doctor by the hand. “Come, 
come with me now.” 

And without giving time to reflect, encouraging him by 
his fervent words, he helped him into his carriage, and 
conducted him to the bedside of the dying woman. 

The pact that Rameau appeared to have made with 
death, and which the latter had but once violated, though 
cruelly, to be sure, seemed to be ratified once more. In 
three days’ time Mme. Servant was restored to life ; in 
saving her, Rameau had saved himself also. By this vic- 
tory he recovered his love of combating pain. His taste 


Loss and Gain . 


125 

for work and activity returned, never to forsake him 
again. 

He was completely transformed. One would have 
thought that, during his long months of torpor, he had 
revived and recovered all his youthful power of con- 
ception and vigor of execution. He reappeared at the 
Ecole de Medecine, and his first lecture, which had at- 
tracted an immense throng of students, was a triumph. 
Every one rejoiced to see this powerful intellect restored, 
and shine out more resplendent than ever. His old charm 
was unbroken, and his eloquence was still more refined. It 
was, perhaps, less virile than in the past, but softened by a 
melancholy poesy chat made it more pleasing to the im- 
agination. It sounded like an echo of his own suffering. 
He had known the extreme of human joy and pain, and 
his genius found in it its complete development. 

Formerly, Rameau was admired, but dreaded in his 
strength and pride. Now, he was loved and venerated, on 
account of his incurable sorrow and unbounded gentle- 
ness. His fortune, then considerable, for he made as much 
money as he wished, had become a source of inconvenience 
to him, and he devised ways of expending it for the great- 
est possible good. He had founded a clinical surgery, 
where, in presence of his pupils, he operated on the poor. 
He devoted two days of the week, at his mansion in the 
Rue Saint-Dominique, to free consultations. Rameau de- 
served the honorable title of physician of the poor. Suf- 
fering or poverty was a sure passport to his benevolence 
or treatment. And what treatment ! The emperors and 
kings had no physicians around them for a moment com- 
parable to this magician who subdued pain, vanquished 
disease, and enchained death. 

Talvanne had grown young again with joy. Proud of 
the cure that he secretly felt he had accomplished, he now 
aided Rameau in the organization of all his charitable 
labors. He managed the surgical hospital, superintended 
all its departments, paid the rent, the nurses ; in a word, 


126 


Loss and Gain . 


took charge of the financial part of the institution, leaving 
the scientific part only to his friend. 

“ Owing to my experience with my asylum,” he said, “ I 
am versed in the financial question, while you, my friend, 
know nothing about it. Mend arms and legs, cut out tu- 
mors, hack bodies to pieces and sew them up again as 
well as ever — that’s your business, and in it you have no 
rival. Each one to his forte, and everything will march 
smoothly.” 

And then the good man would rub his hands and laugh 
joyously. 

Sometimes, in the evenings, he would take little Adri- 
enne on his knee and say: 

“Your father is a great philosopher. They will erect a 
statue to him some day, as grand as any raised to the 
greatest warriors, and he will be more deserving of it, my 
child, than they, for it is better to win glory in helping men 
to live than in compelling them to die.” 

But if the physical and intellectual condition of Rameau 
had become satisfactory, his mental condition still left 
much to desire. The doctor had, notwithstanding the af- 
fectionate solicitude of his friend, and the absorbing love 
of his daughter, many hours of dark melancholy. It was 
especially on the approach of the anniversary of the death 
of her whom he never ceased to mourn, that these sonvbre 
c pells became more oppressive and menacing. On these 
occasions he was almost unapproachable, outside of pro- 
fessional exigency. On the eve of the fatal day, he would 
ascend to his wife’s chamber, and, without opening the 
shutters, sit, as in the darkness of the tomb, for four-and- 
twenty hours, communing alone with the dead. This 
funereal retreat over, he would issue from the chamber, pale 
and bowed, with tearful eyes, but with an increased firm- 
ness and calm. And then he would resume his labors, his 
occupation, his usual life. 

His house, which had been so hospitable, was now rigor- 
ously closed. With the exception of a few friends, no one 


Loss and Gain. 


1 27 


entered it. The Saturday receptions had ceased, the grand 
salon was never lighted, and the invited guests no longer 
ascended the stone steps of the staircase of honor. All 
was silent and gloomy, and two windows, that looked out 
on the garden, on the first floor, in the centre of the fagade, 
remained with their curtains closely drawn, like eyes 
piously closed in death. 

In the midst of this sadness and misanthropy, little Adri- 
enne grew, healthy, lively, and gay, singing like a bird 
perched on a cypress over a tomb, and which carols, with- 
out heed of sorrow or tears, because the skies are blue and 
the sun smiles down on the green. Her father adored her. 
He enveloped her in his love, seeming to search to the bot- 
tom of that soul now beginning to awaken, as if to divine 
the secret of her future temperament. Would she be seri- 
ous or frivolous, sedate or capricious ? And, oh! above all, 
would she be gentle and religious, or intolerant and fanat- 
ical ? Would she have the passionate and ardent soul of 
her mother, and, in this age of wavering faith, would she 
exhibit the religious fervor of past ages ? Or, — and this 
was his dream — would she offer, first to her father, and 
afterward to her husband, a simple and tender heart, con- 
tent to love and to be loved, without wishing to reform or 
proscribe ? 

He made it a rule never to utter before this child a single . 
word in relation to religion — no controversy, no exposition 
of doctrine, but an absolute neutrality. He would have 
considered it a crime to introduce into this mind, open to 
his word and eager to listen to it, a single one of his own 
ideas. On this point he was scrupulously honorable. 

He had Adrienne brought up like all the other little girls 
around her. She went, under the charge of Rosalie, to a 
school where religious instruction formed a part of the 
studies. And when the child would address certain ques- 
tions to her father relating to sacred history, it was de- 
lightful to hear Rameau explain, with an exquisite sim- 
plicity, the charming story of the origin of Christianity. 


128 


Loss and Gain. 


He recounted everything as it had been recounted to him- 
self, in his childhood, and he felt once more, in the depth 
of his recollection, the sensations he had long ago experi- 
enced. After so many years of unbelief, these impres- 
sions had still left their traces on his mind. With a dreamy 
philosophy, he used to say that a faith whose roots struck 
so deeply in the imagination, was almost indestructible. 
And he would gently fondle his daughter, while her dainty 
hands caressed his long, white beard, as he finished the 
recital of The Flight into Egypt, or the Sleep of Jesus on 
the Lake of Gennesareth. 

He thus excited the admiration of Talvanne, who saw 
with unspeakable joy the education of the child advance, 
without giving rise to any difficulty. He was apprehen- 
sive, however, when the time for her first communion drew 
near. How would Rameau accept for his daughter this 
ceremony, against which he had so frequently argued, on 
account of the confession that was preparatory to it ? The 
influence of the priest, holding at his mercy the moral will 
of a young girl or a young woman, appeared monstrous to 
him, and he had always, in discussing this important 
question of liberty of conscience, given way to accesses of 
anger that almost bordered on frenzy. He was intract- 
able on that question, even when he made certain conces- 
sions in regard to others. 

However he had let his daughter learn her catechism, 
and follow the usual course of religious instruction. When 
she talked to him of her religious lessons he manifested no 
disapproval, and it was impossible to surmise what he 
thought about it. To question him would be dangerous, 
inasmuch as it might awaken his susceptibilities, excite 
his prejudices, and provoke a storm. Talvanne was not 
bold enough to confront such difficulties, and he allowed 
the time to pass by, trusting to the unexpected moderation 
of the father, and the captivating sweetness of the daugh- 
ter. He said to himself: 

“ If there be any quarrel, I will leave Adrienne to settle 


Loss and Gain . 


129 

it with him, herself. And I will wager my life that in such 
a dispute, the lamb will bring the tiger to reason.” 

However, as the solemn day drew near, it became neces- 
sary to prepare the girl’s toilet. Rosalie took charge of 
the affair. It was an important solemnity for Adrienne. 
Meantime, she was filled with the deepest fervor at the 
thought of approaching the holy table, and overjoyed, be- 
cause for the first time she was to wear a long dress. 

One evening after dining, Talvanne and Rameau had re- 
tired to the doctor’s cabinet to examine some curious doc- 
uments received from Germany, when the door was noise- 
lessly opened, and Adrienne, radiant with joy, entered in 
her communion-robe. She approached her father and god- 
father, walking with measured step, swinging her skirts 
with that instinctive coquetry of little girls who wish to 
play the part of young ladies. 

“ The dressmaker has come to try on my dress,” she be- 
gan, “and I wanted you to see it. It becomes me so nice- 
ly ! But if you think that any changes should be made, 
say so.” 

Happiness beamed in her eyes; she looked around for a 
glass in which to admire herself, but there was no mirror 
in this quiet and gloomy chamber. Talvanne, who felt 
uneasy from the beginning, cast a searching glance at his 
friend, but found him calm and smiling. When Adrienne, 
with a glow of pleasure, had exclaimed, “ It becomes me so 
nicely,” a smile passed over the serious countenance of 
Rameau, and he replied in a pleasant tone: 

“ Yes, it becomes you splendidly, my child.” 

“Ah! so much the better,” she cried, clapping her hands 
for joy. “ I wish to be among the prettiest, papa, so that 
you can see me in the church, and be proud of me.” 

“Take care, Adrienne,” said Rameau, playfully shaking 
a threatening finger at the girl, “ you see, now you commit 
the sin of pride.” 

The child blushed. All her exuberance vanished, and 
she innocently replied: 


130 


Loss and Gain . 


“You are right, papa, but it was not vanity made me 
say that, but my desire to please you.” 

And as she spoke she went over to her father, flung her 
arms around his neck, kissed him lovingly, and with a 
pretty bow and charming smile, skipped out of the room. 

As soon as the door was shut the two men engaged in a 
rapid interchange of ideas. Talvanne, powerless to resist 
the impulse of his thoughts, bent over to his friend, 
grasped his hand warmly, and said: 

“ You are a brave man ! ” 

“ Does that surprise you ? ” Rameau replied. 

“ No,” answered Talvanne, earnestly. “But I feel that 
you have conquered yourself by an effort, in order to 
please that child, and I, who love her as if she were my 
own, cannot help thanking you for it ! ” 

The doctor raised his head, and looking fixedly at his 
friend, said: 

“ What did you fear from me ? ” 

“Listen,” replied Talvanne, with precaution, “do not 
grow angry at what I am about to say, but I knew you to 
be so intolerant.” 

“ Intolerant ! well, let it be so if you say so,” broke in 
the doctor, “but how could I be so with my daughter?” 

He remained silent for a moment, and then in a tender 
voice, continued: 

“To bruise that young heart now opening in its fresh- 
ness, to cast a shadow on that mind so pure and tender ? 
What a monster I should be ! Oh, no ! If any religion is 
bearable, it is that of a child who feels itself naturally at- 
tracted toward heaven. If any prayer is sacred, it is that 
which ascends from innocent lips. What matters it if the 
belief is vain, if it fortifies the heart and illumines the 
spirit ? All prayer is good, if inspired by love and charity. 
At night when I enter my daughter’s chamber, when she 
is about to go to sleep, I see her join her little hands, and 
I hear her murmur in her sweet voice: 

“ ‘ My God, grant me the grace to do nothing that would 


Loss and Gain. 


131 

offend my papa, and to do everything to make him happy. 
Grant him health and strength, as also to my dear god- 
father.’ 

“ No, Talvanne, I would not wish for anything the world 
could give, that my child would not believe and pray. She 
would in that case, it seems to me, be less good, less sweet, 
less pure. Let us leave philosophy to men ; let them de- 
bate and elucidate, but let us be careful not to rob woman 
of her faith. We would lose too much by it ! ” 

And as his friend gazed at him with evident astonish- 
ment, he continued : 

“ Yes, I can guess your thoughts. You ask yourself how*’ 
it is that I am so liberal with my daughter, after having 
been so authoritative with my wife, at the risk even of caus- 
ing her so much pain. The reason is because the situation 
was entirely different. Conchita was not content to be- 
lieve and pray, she wished to compel me to believe and 
pray as she did. Liberty for herself was not sufficient, she 
wished to deprive me of mine. Her proselytism was 
turned into oppression, and, while I never asked her to 
abandon her belief, she tried to compel me to renounce all 
my convictions. There was a struggle between us, and 
both my dignity as a man and my intellectual authority, 
compelled me to resist. But I never tried to abuse my 
victory. And it is to-day a consolation for me in my sor- 
row, that I never made an effort to weaken her zeal. I 
simply repelled her attacks on my independence, and I did 
not do it without pain. You know I was ready to make 
great concessions; you know, in fact, that I did. But to 
burn all that I had adored, was to exact from me a dishon- 
orable surrender, and great as my love was, it could not 
compel me to accept such degradation. I suffered much 
in silence, for I did not wish any one, not even an old friend 
like yourself, to suspect the troubles that disturbed my 
peace. But the love that I bore my wife was not weakened 
by this suffering. I pitied her when I saw her wounded in 
heart on failing to triumph over my resistance. My ten- 


132 


Loss and Gain . 


derness toward her was redoubled, in order to make her 
forget, if possible, the disappointment that each of these 
attempts caused her. And I may furthermore add, that I 
would not have wished her to share my own ideas. If she 
had been a free-thinker, like myself, I would not have 
loved her; she would have seemed to me a kind of mon- 
ster, all her femininity would have disappeared, and I 
would have turned from her with horror. Religion is 
necessary to woman. Faith occupies her mind, and 
strengthens her heart and lends a touching grace to her 
whole being. And if the society of the future shall know 
atheistic woman, I pity those who will have for mother, 
wife, or daughter, that frightful product of our scientific 
progress. I wish Adrienne to be happy, and consequently 
I have done everything in my power to have her brought 
up in those ideas that will best assure her happiness. She 
will think, and see, like the majority of the good and intel- 
ligent young girls of our time. She will not be distinguished 
above others, save by the beauty nature has bestowed on her, 
and the intelligence which you and I are at such pains to 
develop. She will possess simplicity, uprightness, and good- 
ness. With these qualities, let her marry a good man, and 
then I will go, without the least inquietude, into nothing- 
ness, as I believe, or into eternity, as she believes.” 

Talvanne had listened to this declaration, so singula? 
coming from such a man, with mingled interest and emo, 
tion. He admired the deep philosophy with which Ra- 
meau, gauging the destructive influence of certain ideas 
on certain minds, would limit, for woman, the domain of 
intellectual conquest. He wished to urge him on to a more 
formulated conclusion, and with sarcastic bonhomie, asked: 

“Why do you not wish women to be as enlightened as 
men ? If your ideas are good, why not let them enjoy the 
benefit of them ? I do not understand your restrictions. 
Good is absolute, and if it is desirable for one, it is equally 
so for the other. You would wish, then, to reduce woman 
to a sort of mental servitude ? Why ? ” 


Loss and Gam . 


133 


Rameau shook his head and said : 

“ Because with woman all that is not useful is hurtful. 
There is no middle limit for her. Free thought would 
lead woman directly to license in morals, and from that to 
vice. Liberty is too great a load for her to carry. It 
would be necessary, in order to render her fit to enjoy it, 
to change all the conditions of her existence, which are 
those of infirmity and dependence. She would gain 
nothing by the change, and man would lose by it. Equal- 
ity, from a social point of view, does not and cannot exist 
between man and woman. Let us leave her, then, to her 
role of dependence, sweetness, and grace. It is by that 
she triumphs. Let us not change anything in her destiny, 
for we would not be sure to better it.” 

“ Still, you must admit, there have been women who by 
their greatness of intellect have shown themselves worthy 
of the fullest liberty. For instance, not to go further 
back, Madame Roland in politics, Madame de Stael in lit- 
erature, and later still, George Sand.” 

“ Ah ! you only confirm my reasoning,” broke in Ra- 
meau. “The women you mention were men. There are 
errors in nature, you see, and sex is sometimes improperly 
allotted. If these exceptions should be the rule, we would 
only have to paraphrase the words of the great caricatur- 
ist, and, in speaking of these superior women, say : ‘ May 
God preserve our sons from their daughters ! ’ ” 

Talvanne laughed, and did not carry the controversy 
any further. He was too much in accord with his friend 
that evening not to be well satisfied. They remained for 
a time smoking and chatting by the fire, and the alienist 
departed for Vincennes. 

A few weeks later Adrienne made her first communion.! 
Her father and godfather accompanied her to the church. 
She had the honor of pronouncing publicly, on behalf of 
her companions, the renewal of their baptismal vows, and 
nothing occurred on that solemn day to mar her happi- 
ness. 


134 


Loss and Gain . 


She grew apace, and soon began to take part in her fa- 
ther’s charitable work. She had been placed at the head 
of the wardrobe and laundry, important annexes of the pri- 
vate hospital. In conjunction with Rosalie, she prepared the 
bandages, sheets, napkins, and other articles. She was in 
constant communication with the large shops of Paris, in 
order to purchase at the lowest prices garments for the 
1 poor. She furnished clothing material for infants and 
grown-up children, which she sent to the Sisters’ Industrial 
School to be made. The entire management of this de- 
partment of the business devolved on her, and it was a 
pleasure to see how successfully she accomplished her 
duties. 

Talvanne often came in the mornings to witness his god- 
child dispensing her charities. He would stand in a cor- 
ner of the waiting-hall, through which the sick and the 
needy filed past, and look with admiration at the self- 
possession and smiling grace of this young girl. She was 
now approaching her sixteenth year, and had become a 
grown-up young woman. Her exquisite beauty increased 
with her growth, and Talvanne was not the only one to 
admire it. 

Rameau’s pupil, Robert Servant, had for a long time 
back changed his manner and attitude toward the friend, 
of his boyhood. He no longer joked and laughed and 
played with her, as he used to do years before. He had 
grown reserved and grave toward her, but not less atten- 
tive. When he arrived from the charity hospital, where 
he was a pupil, to receive his master’s orders, he always 
brought a pretty bouquet of flowers to Adrienne, but he 
no longer kissed her, as when a boy. He simply shook 
her hand, but the pressure of his fingers was as tender as 
the kiss. 

He was a remarkable youth, had won his degree in all 
branches, and bade fair to soon gain a place in the Faculty. 
He acquired from Rameau a special taste for chemistry, and 
he had already made some interesting studies on the sub- 


Loss and Gain. 


135 


ject of microbes. A skilful surgeon, he nevertheless pre- 
ferred medicine, whose wider field held out to his curiosity 
the possibility of more numerous discoveries. Being with- 
out fortune and an orphan, his mother having succumbed 
to the malady from which Rameau had saved her years 
before, he had nothing to expect from any one. But he 
was strong, sensible, and a hard worker. He had faith in 
the future, and resolutely pursued his course. 

Besides, his master smoothed the way for him, for in the 
medical sphere he was all-powerful. Whenever he per- 
formed an operation on some rich or distinguished per- 
sonage he always took Robert with him, and left him after 
him to dress the wounds or to watch for possible compli- 
cations. These important assignments were very lucra- 
tive, and the finances of the young doctor were soon on a 
sound footing. He was at home at Rameau’s, having been 
brought up in the house, so to speak. Talvanne and Ro- 
salie regarded him as a member of the family. He lived 
in the shadow of the great celebrity of his master, sharing 
in his labor and enjoying his friendship. And his admira- 
tion for the great man to whom he owed everything was 
only equalled by his devotion to him. He would have 
sacrificed his life for him. But, perhaps, it would have 
been for the father of Adrienne rather than his own patron 
that he would have made the sacrifice. 

A deep, pure, unchangeable love, one of those tender 
feelings of childhood which last for life, filled his heart. 
If he had been asked how long he had loved the young 
girl, he would have been puzzled for an answer. He 
would say: “I have. always loved her. I do not remem- 
ber ever to have felt my heart void of that affection. Since 
I first looked on her I have found her charming. It would 
be impossible for me to realize what life would be without 
her, and if fate should ordain that she should disappear, I 
could only follow her, for without her the world would be 
a desert.” 

Still, he had never uttered a word that could lead the 


136 


The Betrothal . 


young girl to suspect that he loved her. The necessity of 
an avowal of his sentiments had never occurred to his 
mind. Why should he speak to her ? Could she not 
understand without any formal explanations? He was 
sure of her already, without exacting any promise from 
her. He could not imagine her thinking of any other than 
himself. He was perfectly calm and confident, and he 
lived happily in that sad, sombre, and silent mansion, find- 
ing it gay, lively, and radiant, because within its walls he 
could hear the voice and see the smile of Adrienne. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE BETROTHAL. 

Talvanne had just sat down in Rameau's office beside 
the glowing fire that was kept burning all the year 
round, even when the windows were open in the spring- 
time. The doctor had received his friend with a nod, and 
was again engaged in the reading of a report. He made 
a few pencil notes on the margin, and then, thrusting the 
papers aside, he wheeled his chair about, looked at the 
clock, and said 2 

“ Noon already ! if 

“Yes ; and how many patients have you seen ?” 

“ About a dozen. I must dress before dinner, for there 
is an examination to-day at the Ecole. Ring the bell, 
please/' 

Talvanne touched the electric button that was within 
arm’s reach of him, and, as if everything that Rameau 
desired was anticipated and arranged in advance, Rosalie 
entered bearing on her arms a coat, a vest, and a cravat. 
The doctor would have no one but the old servant and 
friend fo his wife attend to his personal wants. She was 
used to wait on him, knew his habits and eccentricities, an- 


The Betrothal. 


137 


ticipated his wants, and would enter his office and inter- 
rupt him while at work to remind him that he was forget- 
ting himself ; that he had such and such a thing to do at 
a certain hour, and that it was time for him to be up and 
going. At ordinary times she was silent, understanding at 
a sign what was wanted, and answering briefly. For these 
reasons Rameau desired to be waited on by her and no 
other. 

She placed the clothes on a chair, opened a credence- 
shaped piece of furniture containing a toilet, and, without 
saying a word, prepared everything that her master needed. 
When all was done she went out as silently as she came. 

The doctor, in his shirt-sleeves, was washing his hands. 
Talvanne went over to the window, and, resting his elbow 
on the sill, looked out into the garden. Robert and 
Adrienne were promenading slowly side by side along the 
border of the grassy lawn in delicious enjoyment. They 
were chatting as they walked, and though their words did 
not reach his ear, Talvanne could easily see by the gaiety 
of their smile and the vivacity of their looks that they 
were happy in each other’s company. The time passed by 
quickly and joyously for them amid the balmy thickets, 
vocal with the song of the flitting birds. Talvanne’s eye 
followed them on their walk, and, divining the pleasure 
they must have felt together, he rejoiced at their happi- 
ness. He turned around, saw Rameau was dressed, and, 
calling him to the window with a gesture, pointed out to 
him the young couple promenading below. 

“ See,” he said. “ Don’t you think they are well 
matched ? ” 

Rameau remained silent. In an instant his mind had 
recalled another picture. The framework was the same — 
the garden before him — but not in the full sunlight ; night 
was falling, and the darkness growing dense among the 
odorous trees. A man and a woman were promenading, 
as they were, with nonchalant step, chatting pleasantly as 
they walked. It was Conchita and himself. How confi- 


i3» 


The Betrothal \ 


dent they were in the present and certain of the future ! 
And yet their destiny grew clouded, enveloping them in 
darkness blacker than that of night, without any warning 
of the misfortune that awaited them. 

The doctor heaved a sigh. Would it be the same with 
that youthful and happy pair who were walking in peace 
and pleasure? Would the balance of fortune incline in 
their favor, or would their union only bring sadness and 
care ? For a long time past he had looked forward to 
their marriage, and now at the decisive moment he hesi- 
tated, seized by a sudden uneasiness, as if he had the pre- 
sentiment of a misfortune. But of what avail could his 
fears be now ? Would it not be a greater misfortune to 
separate them now than to give them to one another ? Had 
they not been left to grow up in that union of heart, in 
that communion of sentiments that paves the way for love ? 
Had they not all along felt themselves destined for one 
another? It was that certainty, that sort of moral posses- 
sion that had lent such sweetness to the friendship of their 
early years. Besides, if they were destined to suffer, could 
they not bear the burden of trouble all the better for 
being together ? And if they should be favored with a 
life of unbroken bliss, would not their joy be doubled, 
since each would rejoice in the other’s happiness ? 

The doctor turned around, and with a sad and pensive 
look walked into his cabinet. Talvanne looked at him 
with astonishment, unable to comprehend the gloomy 
anxiety depicted on his countenance. 

Did not everything breathe of hope and joy in the 
union of this young couple so adapted to one another ? 

“What is the matter with you ? ” he asked. “It would 
seem that that sight of loving youth, in the midst of flow- 
ers, has saddened you. Do you not wish to see them mar- 
ried ? If so, it is high time to inform them of your desire, 
for they have been exchanging loving looks for the past 
year or two. Buried among your papers, your mind ab- 
sorbed in scientific speculations, you have perhaps seen 


The Betrothal. 


139 


nothing ; but I, who am a common enough man to take an 
interest in the simplest affairs of life, can assure you that 
Robert adores Adrienne, and that on her side Adrienne 
does not discourage Robert. He is now twenty-eight 
years of age, and she is eighteen. He is dark ; she is fair. 
He exhibits all the physiognomic characteristics of a well- 
balanced mesaticephalus. I am sure you can have the 
utmost confidence in him. He will make her happy.” ' 

“She must be happy. That will be my last joy in life. 
Everything as regards me is subordinated to that child. I 
will talk to her ; I wish to learn from herself the secret 
of her heart. I will talk with Robert also. And if what 
you believe is true — well, we will have them get married 
as soon as they please.” 

“ Let there be no delay. They know one another well 
enough by this time. Neither of them has a thought that 
the other does not know. Therefore formalities may be 
curtailed.” 

Rameau paused for a moment and replied : 

“ Then I must collect all the necessary documents — my 
marriage contract, the certificate of my daughter’s birth, 
and so forth. These papers are locked up in a little case 
the key of which my wife kept, and which is in her cham- 
ber. You know I never enter that apartment, so full of 
painful memories for me, but once a year, on the fatal an- 
niversary. I shall anticipate the date this time, and will 
make a search for the papers to-morrow. And I shall have 
the painful task of disturbing these sacred relics for the 
first time. But it is necessary and must be done.” 

They said no more on the subject, but descended to the 
dining-hall, where Robert and Adrienne were already 
awaiting them. The breakfast was short, and there was 
scarce a word spoken at the table. Rameau and Talvanne 
then left, taking Robert with them. The alienist did not 
put in an appearance that evening, and the doctor dined 
alone with his daughter. During the meal, he regarded 
her with a searching, penetrating glance, as if studying 


140 


The Betrothal 


her features and admiring the proportions of her elegant 
and graceful form. Adrienne noticed this keen inspection, 
but was too respectful to question her father on the matter. 
It was not until they had gone up-stairs that he decided to 
speak to her. He bade her sit down beside him, and tak- 
ing her by the hand, said : 

“ Your godfather and I had an important conversation 
this morning, of which you were the subject.” 

And as she looked up somewhat surprised, he added : 

“ Do not be disturbed ; you know that my one absorbing 
thought is to assure your happiness. All that I may have 
imagined, prepared, and desired, in relation to this affair, 
will count for nothing, if you declare that my projects do 
not satisfy or please you.” 

She smiled, being already aware of what was coming, 
and rising she bent over and kissed her father tenderly. 

“You are now eighteen years old,” continued the doctor; 
“ you are a grown girl, and you must naturally aspire to a 
pleasanter mode of existence than you have hitherto been 
accustomed to, with two uninteresting old fellows like Tal- 
vanne and myself.” 

This time Adrienne could not remain silent, and inter- 
rupting her father, she said, with tender emotion : 

“ Nevertheless, this is the way I wish to continue to live, 
and I can never hope to be happier than with my god- 
father and you.” 

“You will certainly never be more loved,” resumed Ra- 
meau ; “ for since you were born we have done everything 
with a view to your happiness. But, my child, we will not 
live forever, and the tender solicitude we have always 
shown for you will some day rudely come to an end. We 
must, therefore, look to your future, and a young girl’s 
future means marriage. Do not think that I consider this 
question lightly. If you thus far have been happy with 
me, I have found in you my last remaining pleasure, the 
supreme consolation of my life. This house, that has 
known so much sadness and pain, has retained through 


The Betrothal . 


141 

you a spark of animation and gaiety. You have been its 
ray, its smile. Hence, I assure you, that the thought of 
surrendering all this joy to another bruises my heart. But 
I am not selfish enough to wish you to sacrifice yourself 
for my happiness, and I wish to give you a companion 
with whom you can walk the path of life in full secu- 
rity.” 

“ Then you are thinking of parting from me?” 

“ No, my dear child, for I hope that he who will be your 
husband will not deprive me of your dear presence. But, 
you know, a woman must follow her husband, and when 
you will be married, no matter how near me you may be, 
you will no longer belong to me in the sense you do to-day. 
There will always be between you and me the thought, the 
recollection, the image of another.” 

The doctor shook his head musingly, and continued : 

“And yet, even now, I may be entertaining strange illu- 
sions ; who knows if already — yes, Talvanne declares that 
your heart no longer belongs to me alone, and that you 
love ” 

Adrienne’s fingers twitched nervously in her father’s 
hand, her cheeks flushed, and she remained silent, not dar- 
ing to raise her eyes. 

“ I am not reproaching you, my dear,” continued the 
doctor. “ At most, it is but a question I ask you. I have 
full confidence in you, and I am sure, beforehand, that if 
your heart has gone out to anybody in love, your choice 
must be such as to secure my approbation.” 

“ Oh ! papa, I am quite sure of it.” 

She stopped short, ashamed of the warmth with which 
she had uttered these words. Rameau smiled pleasantly 
and went on : 

“ You know that everybody, even the best and the most 
frank, have their secrets. You cherished thoughts that I 
had not suspected. It is Talvanne who was observant 
enough to discern it ; he was not deceived by your apparent 
tranquillity of manner, and he guessed your little romance. 


142 


The Betrothal. 


Come, tell me something about it. For at. present I would 
like to know all.” 

“ Oh ! papa, there is nothing peculiar about it, and it is 
not in the least romantic. And perhaps, even, I have nursed 
illusions and dreamed alone, for no word has ever been 
exchanged between me and him of whom you speak.” 

“ Who is he ? ” 

She raised her pure, blue eyes, and said with naive calm- 
ness, as if no other name could fall from her lips : 

“ It is Robert.” 

Rameau heaved a sigh of relief. He had not doubted 
what Talvanne told him ; still he felt a profound satisfac- 
tion that the husband of his daughter’s choice was the one 
he himself desired for her. 

“ And you love him ? ” 

“ I only followed your example,” replied the girl adroitly, 
“ for you yourself have always treated him as a son. I 
felt pleasure in seeing him come to the house. He was 
my playmate when we were children, he was my friend in 
youth, he was always near me, and if he were to leave me 
now I know I should suffer deeply. Excepting my godfather 
and you, I don’t know anybody else half so good. When I 
am troubled he comforts me. When I am gay he seems 
more joyous. He has always seemed to me generous, re- 
fined, and sympathetic, and if wishing to spend one’s life 
with another means loving him, then certainly I love 
Robert.” 

While she was speaking, Rameau gazed in her face, and 
her candid charm filled him with delight. He did not try 
to analyze his sensations, he found them pleasant, and was 
satisfied. 

“ And do you think he loves you, too ? ” he asked. “ Has 
he ever told you so ? ” 

“No, papa, but I know he feels the same pleasure in my 
company that I do in his. He has a way of speaking to me, 
of smiling on me, that reveals his whole heart. When his 
mother was dead, you remember, I went to sit up with 


The Betrothal . 


143 


Rosalie. We found poor Robert alone, for he had no rela- 
tives in Paris. On seeing me enter he was so overcome with 
emotion that he could scarce utter a word. He led me into 
his mother’s chamber, and remained alone with me. We 
sat near the window side by side, neither of us speaking. 
But I could read his gratitude in his eyes. That evening, 
when about to leave, he took a small diamond ring, the only 
one his mother used to wear, and gave it to me, saying : 1 It 
is one of the most precious souvenirs of my mother that I 
possess, for she wore that ring when she was a young girl, 
and kept it all her life; accept it from me, and always wear 
it.’ I was embarrassed, for I did not wish to receive the 
jewel, and I was afraid to refuse it, lest I might offend him. 
He then took me gently by the hand, and placed the ring 
on my finger. He smiled through his sadness, and that 
golden ring seemed to me the first link of a chain which 
united us, never to be broken. When I came home I showed 
you the ring and told you how it came into my possession. 
You kissed me, but said nothing about returning it, and I 
was happy, for I knew then that you did not disapprove of 
the affection I felt for Robert. Since then you have made 
him regard this house as his home. Now I see him every 
day ; we walk together in the garden, we talk and laugh, 
and I am so happy with him that I do not know how I 
could be more so.” 

“ But has he never spoken a word to you that could give 
any intimation of his hopes?” 

“ What need of it ? ” answered Adrienne, with charming 
innocence ; “each of us knows the other’s heart.” 

“ Then you are sure of him ? ” 

" Yes, papa, as sure as he should be of me.” 

“Without having come to any understanding in the 
matter ? ” 

“ Without any understanding except that of our looks 
and smiles.” 

“Then you wish to become his wife ?” 

“Yes, papa, for he would be a good son to you, and 


144 


The Betrothal. 


nothing would be changed in our mode of life. My god- 
father would also be pleased, for he likes Robert. That is 
easily seen, for he does not know how to dissemble. And 
when he disapproves of anything, or suspects anybody, he 
soon shows it in an unmistakable manner. Well, he has al- 
ways been as kind and friendly toward Robert as toward me, 
and he has never missed an occasion to talk to me about him.” 

“ Then you think he intended to encourage you ? ” 

“Yes, papa, and I was much pleased.” 

“And as for me, you did not trouble yourself about my 
opinion ?*’ 

Adrienne leaped to her father’s knee, and putting her 
arms around his neck and kissing him lovingly, said : 

“ Oh ! you ! I knew you would not refuse me anything, 
if I only asked you in the right way.” 

“ Your peace of life, however,” said the doctor gravely, “ is 
involved in this affair, and it must not be decided lightly. 
I believe as you do, that Robert is a good and honorable 
young man, and I know that as a physician he has a brill- 
iant future. But if you could only realize the unexpected 
difficulties there are liable to arise. Life is full of snares, 
and we cannot take too great precautions to avoid them. 
It is the duty of parents to give their children the benefit 
of their experience in this respect. Talvanne and I will 
elicit from Robert a confession of his feeling toward you. 
And if it is such as we have reason to hope — if he cherishes 
the sentiments that we attribute to him — then, my child, 
hard though it be for me to yield a part of my rights to your 
precious heart, I will entrust it to him, and your happiness 
will be secured.” 

And as Adrienne, her arms around her father’s neck, 
deluged him with kisses, a part of which only was doubt- 
less intended for him, the doctor rose, and gently with- 
drawing from his daughter’s embrace, said : 

“ Now go, my darling, and let me work. Sleep tranquilly, 
so that your lover will meet you to-morrow morning with 
bright eyes and fresh cheeks.” 


The Betrothal, 


145 


The girl bade her father good-night and, her face radi- 
ant with joy, retired. Rameau, left alone, took some re- 
ports from his desk and tried to read. But his mind was 
distracted, and he could not concentrate it on his work. 
The lines gr^w dim, and before his eyes he saw only a 
young couple marching with light step, exchanging joyous 
looks and thoughts. At this sight his heart swelled within 
his bosom, and an intoxicating pleasure that he had not felt 
for a long time thrilled through him, and it seemed to him 
that the fountain of sweet emotions which he thought was 
forever dried up within, gushed forth and overflowed 
anew. 

With his head bent on his bosom he gave himself up to 
gloomy thoughts. He reflected on the fact that man is 
never wholly divorced from earthly ties, and that joy or 
sorrow always finds in him a soil prepared for exhaustless 
seed. The tree struck by the lightning and shrivelled by 
the winter will blossom no more ; its trunk will slowly de- 
cay and crumble into dust, to form a part of the universal 
mass. After years of sterility it will not suddenly bloom 
forth anew, revivified by a fresh sap through all its 
branches. But he, a trunk, inert and withered for so long a 
period, once more regains the faculty of feeling, and conse- 
quently of suffering. He saw himself again united by 
powerful bonds to living creatures, and capable of taking 
an active, feverish interest in the vicissitudes of their ex- 
istence. He believed himself dead, and he discovered, at 
once to his horror and his joy, that he lived, and that he 
could doubtless be happy once more. 

For would it not be a profound pleasure to witness this 
lovely girl bloom into an adorable woman ? Could he not 
bask in the warmth of the rays of this happiness which he 
himself created ? Little children would be born, who 
would grow up under his eyes, and, loving like their 
mother, would lavish on him their sweet caresses. A 
cloud passed before his eyes, which now moistened with 
tears. A voice within him seemed to say : 


146 


The Betrothal . 


“ You are unfaithful to the memory of the dead. You 
swore never to entertain a thought that did not refer to 
her. Her image alone was to be before your eyes like that of 
a divinity to whom you were to consecrate all your remain- 
ing days. And, behold, you profane the solitude where 
she was sovereign, and your heart opens to new affections, 
your mind to new thoughts. After having acted for fifteen 
years the comedy of an inconsolable grief, you are now 
about to cast off, in an instant, all the signs of your mourn- 
ing, and replace in your affections her who seemed to have 
borne with her all your love to the tomb.” 

But his powerful mind reacted against these impressions. 
“Man,” he said to himself, “should not support more than 
a certain weight of care and pain, and it would be ingrati- 
tude on his part to refuse the compensations offered to 
him. What can be more just than that I should feel a 
deep satisfaction on seeing my daughter happy ?* If I am 
not to endure pain and to enjoy the sweets of life, why was 
I given life at all ? Besides/’ he thought, with a quick re- 
turn to his bitter pessimism, “ this apparent happiness is, 
perhaps, deceptive, and who knows but that I am reserved 
for unforeseen and still more poignant sufferings ? ” 

He then endeavored to imagine all the disappointments 
and misfortunes that the future could have in store for 
him. He could discover none more terrible than to be de- 
prived of his daughter. If, in the new life she was about 
to enter on, Adrienne should fall ill and die, what would 
become of him ? He could not endure the thought of the 
void and the solitude in which he would have to live ; and 
rising abruptly, he began to pace the room in order to dis- 
tract his imagination. After a few moments his calmness 
returned, and he resumed his work. 

On arriving, at ten o’clock the following morning, at the 
Rue Saint-Dominique, to receive the orders of his master, 
Robert was surprised to find the way barred by Rosalie. 
As he was about to question her, the governess opened 
the door of the little salon, and the young man perceived 


The Betrothal \ 


14 7 

Dr. Talvanne within, reading a journal. The alienist 
quickly rose, and extending his hand, said : 

“Rameau is engaged ; we cannot disturb him. Sit 
down and keep me company while waiting. What is the 
latest news in the medical world ? ” 

“Why, doctor,” replied Robert with a smile, “ I am sure 
you are better informed than I am in that respect.” 

“ As regards serious things, perhaps I am, but frivolous 
things, no. Tell me what is going on at the Ecole. Do 
they no longer perpetrate mischief, or play tricks on the 
professors ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! ” 

“Well, what’s the latest?” 

“They say that Professor Gazan now demands, when- 
ever he performs serious operations, which is his specialty, 
a year’s income from his patients as fees. He has an 
agency that keeps him informed regarding the financial 
standing of persons who are sick, and when, the other day, 
the husband of a lady whom he attended protested that 
he was not as rich as was generally believed, Gazan in- 
terrupted him, saying : 

“ ‘ Monsieur, you have a house on the Rue de Rivoli 
which brings you in so much, two farms in Normandy 
which bring so much, and so many interest-bearing bonds. 
Do not think you can deceive me.’ The man was dum- 
founded, and agreed to pay the bill.” 

“ Does he return the money when the operation does not 
succeed ? ” 

“ Never. The patient may die, but Gazan pockets the 
t money.” 

t “ You see,” said Talvanne, “customs are changing now- 
adays. In my time such methods were unknown. For- 
merly medicine was a science, now it is an industry. The 
main point is to make money, and on this head you are 
going to be satisfied, for I have heard Rameau talk of a 
confidential mission he has to give you. You are to go to 
Saxony and to remain there six months. You will have 


14B 


The Betrothal 


plenty of leisure to prepare your thesis for the examination 
for the fellowship, and you will receive a princely remuner- 
ation for your services. That is something not to be light- 
ly considered.” 

Talvanne might have continued a long time without 
being interrupted, for Robert no longer heard him. His 
mind was otherwise absorbed. He blushed, looked down- 
ward, as if he feared to meet the eye of the doctor, and 
seemed to be engaged in examining the flowers of the 
carpet. The news he had heard had completely unnerved 
him. For two months past he had never started for the 
Rue Saint-Dominique without saying to himself : 

“I am going to summon all my courage to-day, and 
speak to Dr. Rameau seriously.” 

To speak to the doctor seriously signified in Robert's 
mind that he would inform Rameau that he loved Adri- 
enne, and ask him to give her to him in marriage. 

He started firmly resolved to face the imposing look of 
his master. After all, was it such a difficult step ? Had 
he not been treated like a son by the doctor ? Certainly. 
Could he doubt of his good-will ? By no means. 

Though Robert had seen Rameau every day for fifteen 
years, and experienced only kindness at his hands, yet he 
could scarce help trembling whenever he came into his 
presence. He never opened the door of the office in which 
Rameau worked without a feeling of embarrassment. He 
never answered a question addressed to him by the doctor 
without experiencing a like feeling. He saw in Rameau a 
superior being, with whom it was difficult if not impossible 
to make free. He loved his daughter passionately, but he 
could not summon courage enough to ask him for her in 
marriage. 

While Talvanne was speaking to him, he mused: 

“ What is the meaning of this whim of sending me away 
for six months, under the pretext of giving me an oppor- 
tunity of making money, when he knows that I care very 
little about it, and of affording me leisure to prepare for 


The Betrothal. 


149 


my examination, when he knows I have all the time neces- 
sary here ? Evidently some incident has occurred of which 
I am ignorant, and which will alter my position in this 
house. The doctor wants to get me out of the way. Per- 
haps he has discovered that I love his daughter. Then, it 
is certain he does not wish to give her to me. Or, per- 
haps, she has been asked by somebody else, and the suit 
has been accepted.” 

At this idea, a feverish feeling came over him, and his 
senses seemed to swim for the moment. He felt ashamed 
on thinking that he had sought to win the affections of his 
benefactor’s daughter, without first being sure of his ap- 
proval. He concluded that he had acted indelicately, and 
was deeply pained at the thought. “ But, if she loves me, 
after all,” he said to himself, “might we not hope to over- 
come the father’s resistance ? But, then, I would seem to 
be making a speculation. She will be very wealthy, and I 
am poor. I will be accused of having abused the doctor’s 
friendship and the position accorded me in his household, 
by endeavoring to capture this tender heart and simple 
mind.” 

His very sense of honor made him suffer, in the thought 
that he may not have acted with due propriety. And yet, 
he persisted in hoping that Adrienne loved him. He re- 
called to mind her many kindly favors and the affectionate 
attentions she had shown him. Could it be that she could 
ever belong to any other than the friend of her childhood ? 
He rebelled at the thought, and an angry feeling took pos- 
session of him. Why should he sacrifice himself ? Why 
should he go, and leave a free field to another ? The blood 
mounted to his face, he raised his downcast eyes, slapped 
his knee determinedly, and, forgetful of where he was and 
with whom he was, exclaimed: 

“ No ! That shall never be ! ” 

He was aroused from his reverie by hearing Talvanne 
ask : 

“ What shall never be ? ” “ You are talking to yourself,” 


The Betrothal. 


150 

resumed the alienist, looking at him with a quizzical air. 
“ That comes under the head of my specialty. Do you 
see imaginary beings and converse with them in a menac- 
ing tone ? That shows you are suffering from the mania 
of persecution. That is a species of disease that is rarely 
cured. As a rule, medullary disease develops rapidly, and 
the subject becomes paralytic.” 

“ Never mind,” interrupted Robert, with a forced smile, 
“ I am in the full possession of my senses. Or, at least, I 
think I am,” he continued, with a tinge of bitterness in his 
tone. “ I was thinking simply of that six months’ sojourn 
in Saxony, and I protested against the task my master 
wished to impose on me.” 

“ But I don’t think he will impose it on you, if you are 
not satisfied with it,” replied Talvanne, earnestly. “ He 
seemed, to me, to wish to do you a favor.” 

“ A singular favor, that, to send me away for half a 
year ! ” 

“ It shows he has confidence in you, when he entrusts 
such a difficult and important case to you.” 

“ Cannot he get a German to attend to this German pa- 
tient ? ” 

“ Pshaw ! It is an archduke ! ” 

“ I do not care if it was the king ! ” 

Talvanne bit his lips and rubbed his hands, which, with 
him, was a sign of sudden mental agitation. He rose from 
his chair, and, lowering his tone, as if he had something 
confidential to say, said: 

“ Then you have imperative reasons for remaining in 
Paris ? ” 

Robert looked at him thoughtfully. He was never em- 
barrassed in the presence of Talvanne. The alienist had 
always been friendly toward himself and affectionate to- 
ward Adrienne. Was it not, then, by a lucky accident he 
met him at that decisive moment, when he could no longer 
conceal the secret of his love? To reveal his thoughts to 
Talvanne was to reveal them to Rameau. The one would 


The Betrothal. 


151 

not have known it a quarter of an hour, until the other 
would know it also. And what an advantage it would be 
if his suit were approved of by the godfather ! He would 
have a powerful ally to defend his cause. His courage re- 
turned, he experienced a sense of relief, and he felt himself 
capable of discussing, supplicating, convincing. 

While Robert was considering this plan, Talvanne scanned 
his face closely, and said to himself: 

“ What is that simpleton thinking of, anyway ? I sud- 
denly sprung the news on him of a six months’ exile far from 
his sweetheart, and, behold, instead of confessing his love, 
he flares up, protests, declares he will not go, but studi- 
ously conceals the reason. The occasion has presented it- 
self, when he should frankly say: ‘ I love your godchild, 
and I cannot bear the idea of living apart from her.’ But 
let me see if he will speak ! And he pretends that he is 
in possession of his senses. What, after all, if he is not ? 
I have not done anything calculated to discourage him. 
But I must come to his assistance, and do as Socrates, who 
was surnamed the accoucher of minds.” 

“ So you are absolutely determined not to leave Paris ? ” 
he resumed, looking in Robert’s face with a pleasing 
glance. 

“ Absolutely determined,” replied the young man. 

“ Some love affair, no doubt ? ” 

“ I hope you do not think so.” 

“ Then it must be for the pleasure of passing a few 
hours every day in the company of two old men, like Ra- 
meau and me, that you refuse a mission which would be 
eagerly accepted by any man of your age. That is quite 
flattering for me.” 

Robert felt the sting of Talvanne’s raillery, and was 
about to confess all, but as the words were on his tongue 
he hesitated once more. 

Talvanne guessed that the young man flinched at the 
idea of burning his ships behind him. He realized the 
trepidation he felt, and, coming directly to his aid, said: 


152 


The Betrothal. 


“ Come, you ninny, tell me plainly, and at once, what the 
trouble is. You know well that, if the case is a reasonable 
one, you can count on my assistance, and that, if it is ab- 
surd, you can rely on my silence/' 

At these words, so full of goodness, Robert grasped the 
doctor’s hand, and said : 

“ Well, then, know it all ; I love Adrienne, and that is 
why I do not wish to leave. Who knows what might hap- 
pen during my absence ? Am I sure even that her father 
has not already formed projects concerning her that might 
ruin all my hooes?" 

Talvanne rubbed his hands, and looking at Robert with 
a stern expression, said : 

“Ah ! mon garcon, your aspirations are pretty high ! " 

“ Doctor ” stammered the young man. 

“ I understand that you are determined to remain here.” 

“ Most certainly,” interrupted Robert, somewhat con- 
fused. 

“And what does Adrienne think of all this ? ” 

“ I have never uttered a word that could lead her to sus- 
pect my sentiments toward her.” 

“And you see her every day?” 

Talvanne paused, cast a mischievous glance at his dum- 
founded friend, and with a laugh continued : 

“ You are a very reserved young man, and highly honor- 
able ; accept my compliments. But are you quite sure, on 
the other hand, that you have not acted somewhat booby- 
ish ? When one really loves a girl he is right not to dis- 
turb her tranquillity with passionate protestations ; but 
when she has near her a godfather like Dr. Talvanne, he 
must be very distrustful not to endeavor to clear up the 
situation by being a trifle confidential with him.” 

“ What do you mean?” asked Robert anxiously. 

“ Simply this : that it has taken me a whole half-hour 
to find out what I wanted to know, and which you ought 
to have told me without any effort on my part. Now, all 
that remains is for us to go and see the girl’s father.” 


The Betrothal. 


153 


Talvanne laid his hand on the young man’s shoulder, 
and opening the door, pushed him toward Rameau’s cabi- 
net. But Robert, reluctant to face his master on such an 
errand, stopped short in the corridor, and whispered : 

“ Doctor, tell me truly, do you think I can broach the 
subject thus brusquely ? ” 

“ Do you want to communicate with him through am- 
bassadors, like a prince of the blood?” 

“ But what shall I say ?” 

“ The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” 

“ What will the doctor think of it ? ” 

“ That his daughter is pretty enough to make any one 
fall in love with her.” 

“ Do you think he will receive me favorably?” 

“ Would I bring you to him if I had any doubt of it ? ” 

At this Robert regained a little courage, and without 
saying more followed Talvanne into the doctor’s cabinet. 
Enveloped in his long, black gown, over which his white 
beard flowed, Rameau looked at them enter, without mov- 
ing from his chair. His eyes sparkled from under his 
bushy brows, and his lips wore a benignant smile. Tal- 
vanne went over beside him, and pointing to Robert, who 
stood motionless, said : 

“ I bring you this somewhat unwilling visitor, and not 
without considerable trouble, I assure you. I have rarely 
met any one more determined in his resistance. It re- 
quired as much effort to compel him to confess his love as 
if it were a crime. But no matter, hebemus confitentem reu?n. 
What shall we do with him ? ” 

Rameau, who had arisen from his chair, and was leaning 
against the chimney-piece, replied with a smile : 

“ Make a happy man of him ! ” 

Robert grew pale with emotion, and Rameau advanced 
and clasped him warmly by the hand. 

“ Well, so far so good,” exclaimed Talvanne; “ let us 
now attend to the girl.” 

And as he spoke he went out hurriedly, leaving the doc- 


154 


The Betrothal . 


tor and his prot6g6 together. The ice was now broken 
between them, and Robert gave full vent to his feelings. 
He revealed all his day-dreams, hopes, doubts, and fears. 
And in these passionate words the doctor recognized, with 
a melancholy pleasure, the echo of his own vanished feel- 
ings. Yes, he who loved thus passionately loved sincerely, 
deeply, without reserve, and would never change. 

He would understand Adrienne’s delicate and tender 
nature and their two hearts would beat in unison. No 
germ of discord existed to come between them, as had been 
the case with Conchita and himself, on account of their 
religious differences. Robert, brought up by a pious mo- 
ther, had retained all the religious sentiments of his child- 
hood. His active intellect impelled him to discuss freely 
in his own mind many doctrines of religion, but the violent 
persecutions to which he saw it subjected only served to 
strengthen his wavering faith. The day when Adrienne 
would ask him to bow down with her, he would do so, and 
their mutual love would be strengthened by their mutual 
faith. 

At this thought a sigh escaped from Rameau, and his face 
was darkened by bitter recollections. This great mind 
that from its lofty eminence dominated human thought, 
cursed, for a moment, the supreme perspicacity that, in 
making him so superior to his fellow-men, deprived him 
of the happiness that is the portion of the humble and the 
lowly. A new Prometheus, he tried to penetrate the mys- 
teries of heaven, and blasted by misfortune, he bore in his 
heart a devouring wound. But had he not paid the debt 
of all his kindred, and by reason of the sufferings he en- 
dured, should not Adrienne’s life be exempt from care and 
sorrow ? Robert had promised that it should be so with 
passionate ardor, and he was willing to believe him. Sin- 
cerity shone in his eyes as clearly as his love and gratitude. 

“My dear boy,” said Rameau gravely, “I confide to 
you the most precious thing I possess. You know how 
unfortunate I have been. My daughter is the only being 


The Betrothal. 


155 


that attaches me to life. Hence it is my life that is con- 
fided to your care. I have educated you, I have smoothed 
for you the path of life, you are my pupil and almost my 
son. Your grandfather was my benefactor, and I owed 
him more than you owe me, for, without me, you would be 
able to become a distinguished man ; your family were able 
to give you a good education, whereas I was the son of a 
common laborer, destined to remain rude and ignorant, 
had not Dr. Servant picked me up and created a future for 
me. Up to this morning I had not discharged the debt I 
owed to your family and to yourself, but now I give you 
my daughter, and to reckon from this instant it is you who 
become my debtor ” 

“ All my days shall be employed in the endeavor to dis- 
charge that debt.” 

“ Very well, I believe you, and I thank you/' 

They were standing face to face, holding one another’s 
hands with a warm clasp. The door opened, and Tab 
vanne and Adrienne entered the room. Her sweet face 
beamed with joy and her raptured looks turned from her 
father to her lover. They all stood for a moment silent 
and motionless, as if they feared to lose the delightful sen- 
sation they experienced. At length Rameau held out his 
arms to his daughter, who with a smiling look of gratitude 
sank upon his bosom. The joyous father then brought 
the young lovers together, looked in their faces for an in- 
stant as if to read on their brows the secret of their des- 
tiny, placed their hands in one another, and, bowing his 
patriarchal head, said : 

“ My children, I wish you happiness ! ” 

They remained for an instant with hands joined, smiling 
in joyous surprise as if they did not as yet dare to believe 
in the reality of their happiness, and then without uttering 
a word they retired from the room, leaning on one an- 
other, as they should continue to do for the remainder of 
their life. 

A moment after their light step was heard on the grav- 


1 56 The Discovery. 

elled walk in the garden below, and the two old men, their 
hearts touched by the radiant flowering of that love which 
deprived each of them of a portion of his daughter’s 
heart, saw the happy pair whispering in tender tones, with 
smiling lips, oblivious of everything save their own happi- 
ness, promenading in the joyous sunshine among the odor- 
ous flowers. 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE DISCOVERY. 

The morning after the betrothal of Robert and Adrienne 
Rameau repaired to the mortuary chamber into which he 
entered only once a year. The house was silent. Adrienne 
was busy in her little work-chamber on the first floor, and 
Rosalie, on seeing the doctor directing his steps toward 
the apartment of her whom she continued to mourn as 
well as himself, had retired into another room. Rameau 
crossed the corridor, and reached the door, pale and agi- 
tated. The key was in the lock, as if the occupant, instead 
of being gone forever, might return at any moment. The 
doctor paused for an instant, as if debating with himself 
whether he should not defer the melancholy visit. But an 
effort of will urged him forward, and he opened the door 
with a firm hand and entered. 

The room was in a state of semi-darkness that was 
made more obscure by his sudden passage from the light 
outside. He remained standing in the midst of this ob- 
scurity and silence, impressed by the sight of that undis- 
turbed chamber, starting at the faintest noise, and looking 
with a troubled glance as if to see if some one was walk- 
ing beside him. His eyes, gradually becoming accus- 
tomed to the darkness, began to distinguish the outlines 
of the furniture. There was the table, and there was the 


157 


The Discovery. 

long chair on which Conchita loved to recline and while 
away the hours. A ray of light passing through a hole in 
the closed curtain glittered on the framework of the clock, 
and the bed in the alcove, with the hangings drawn aside, 
was indistinctly visible. A faint odor, like the perfume of 
faded flowers, floated in the air. And Rameau recalled 
with profound emotion the heaps of bouquets on the bier 
on that fatal day, and the heavy fragrance of these funereal 
gifts. 

He turned around and looked at the velvet-covered 
supports on which the coffin had rested that contained 
all that he held dearest on earth. The mournfulness of 
this solitude, filled with the memory of the dead, over- 
powered him, and, as if he had felt himself pursued by a 
spectre, he stepped hurriedly to the window, opened it, 
flung back the shutters, and then returned to the centre of 
the room. It was empty, dusty, filled by the light that 
poured in through the open window, and from the wall 
the portrait of Conchita smiled sadly down, with the bou- 
quet of forget-me-nots in her hand. 

It was all that remained of the departed wife and friend 
— this canvas shining in its gilded frame, a sad reminder, 
since perpetuating the beauty of the woman and the talent 
of the painter, it made their loss all the more lamentable. 
Rameau lapsed into a mournful reverie. In a moment all 
the past came back before him — that brilliant period when 
he mounted to the heights gilded by the rising sun, now 
left behind buried in the shade of night, the happy period 
when he walked between love and friendship, both now 
vanished, leaving behind in the place of hope and joy 
only doubt and sorrow and pain. 

An overpowering feeling of grief took possession of 
him. Why was it not he who had gone ? He would 
have gone to sleep in the tranquil repose of nothingness, 
and would not be compelled to drag out a miserable exist- 
ence harassed by futile regrets. All his great achieve- 
ments — his admirable works, his numerous discoveries, 


The Discovery . 


158 

fame, and glory — he forgot all, and was ready to sacrifice 
all for a few hours of that vanished happiness. 

Seated by the table, on which were still lying in scat- 
tered disorder the little articles that Conchita daily used, 
he gazed at them for a time in tearful contemplation. His 
love for his daughter, his affection for Talvanne and Rob- 
ert — everything was forgotten, and his life appeared to 
him like a black abyss in which all that could render him 
happy was engulfed forever. He picked up with tender 
touch a little piece of needle-work, in which the needle was 
still sticking, as if awaiting the fingers that plied it to re- 
turn and resume their task. 

He had often seen that piece of embroidery in the hands 
of Conchita — it seemed to him to still bear the mark of her 
fingers ; to have retained their warmth, and preserved the 
sweetness of her presence. He raised it to his lips and 
kissed it with a melancholy pleasure. He was alone, hid- 
den from all eyes, and had the right to abandon himself to 
his grief like the feeblest of men, to cease for the moment 
to be the great and illustrious philosopher and to become 
a weak mortal, nursing his misery and sorrow. 

He remained a long time in this gloomy contemplation. 
The clock, stopped at the moment of Conchita's death, had 
not since moved its gilded hands over its enamelled dial. 
The hours were gliding by, and the entire day might have 
passed without anybody daring to enter that room or dis- 
turb its occupant. The easy opening and shutting of the 
doors, the stealthy step of the servants on the stairway, 
the conversation in low tones, alone broke the silence ; but 
their confused sounds did not awaken Rameau’s attention. 
He had forgotten his midday meal ; his mind had deserted 
its material tenement and, heedless of the present, was 
enveloped in the past. 

The sun gradually disappeared behind the large trees of 
the esplanade, and the shades of evening were coming on. 
The portrait on the wall grew dimmer, and its outlines 
grew less distinct, as if fading in the distance. Rameau 


159 


The Discovery . 

wished to look at it from a more favorable light, and, ris- 
ing, broke the spell of his reverie. He saw himself in the 
deserted and dusty chamber, he remembered that he had 
come there for a serious purpose, and that instead of 
plunging into mystical contemplation, he should accom- 
plish the object of his visit. He passed his hand across 
his brow, and recovering his self-possession, directed his 
steps toward the mantel-shelf, where an enamel cup, un- 
touched by human hand for fifteen years, contained Con- 
chita’s bunch of keys. He picked them up in his trem- 
bling hand, selected a tiny gilt key, went over to the 
bureau, and with a pious reverence opened the drawers. In 
the middle one he found the letter-paper bearing the initials 
C. R., together with the envelopes and a pretty ivory pen- 
holder. A photograph of little Adrienne dressed in white, 
the legs and arms bare, standing on a chair, smiled from 
its enamel frame. Rameau took it up, and on looking at 
it closely, discovered, to his astonishment, a miniature of 
Munzel at the bottom. 

It was he, without doubt, just as he appeared in the 
early days of their friendship, in his twenty-fifth year, fair, 
with his blue eyes and look of inexplicable sadness. The 
portrait was signed with the monogram which the doctor 
had so frequently seen at the bottom of the small canvas- 
es which the artist had painted to fill the orders of picture 
dealers. How did this miniature, so completely foreign to 
the style of Munzel, come to be placed in this drawer, and 
united with the photograph of Adrienne ? 

The obstinate hostility that his wife had manifested 
toward his friend, in the beginning, came back to Rameau’s 
mind, then the sudden disappearance after the reception 
of the portrait of Mme. Etchevarray, and finally the close 
relations of Munzel and Conchita, when the latter sat for 
her portrait. Doubtless, at this period, the young woman 
had seen this miniature at the studio and had asked for it, 
as a souvenir of their friendship. But how came it that 
she had not shown it to her husband, and that he did not 


160 The Discovery . 

know it was in her possession ? Why was it hidden at the 
bottom of a drawer, in a piece of furniture which was closed 
to all but herself ? 

Why should he think it surprising that Conchita should 
receive Frantz’s portrait ? He should only be glad of it 
and should look on the picture with pleasure. It would be 
to him a precious souvenir of the friend so tragically lost 
and bitterly regretted. But why should it be hidden away 
like some forbidden object ? What harm was there in pos- 
sessing that picture ? And why, on coming across it, did 
Rameau grow agitated ? Might he not discover a portrait 
of Talvanne, also ? 

At this idea, a frown furrowed his pale brow, and a bit- 
ter smile played on his lips. No, he would not have found 
in Conchita’s drawer a portrait of Talvanne, and, if he did, 
his heart would not have beaten more quickly, the per- 
spiration of agony would not have moistened his brow, he 
would have seen in the circumstance nothing suspicious, 
improper, or reprehensible. The sound and solid honesty 
of his friend would have covered all with its unassailable 
prestige, whereas Munzel 

Having come to this conclusion in his stormy imagin- 
ings, Rameau stamped his foot in his anger, he uttered an 
exclamation that resounded in the solemn silence of the 
chamber, and wishing to compel himself to reject these 
suspicions as absurd as they were odious, he exclaimed 
aloud: 

“ Come ! my mind is wandering ! What poison has 
flowed into my heart, what folly has taken possession of 
my imagination? Frantz? I might as well suspect my 
brother ? ” 

He raised his eyes and his looks met the portrait of the 
charming young woman who smiled down on him, with 
her little blue bouquet in her hand. Oh ! the sweet smile 
of that exquisite mouth, the adorable look of those languid 
eyes. For weeks the painter had seen and admired them. 
He had reproduced them on the canvas, and his brush had 


The Discovery . 161 

modelled all the outlines of these luscious lips, as if caress- 
ing them with a kiss. Was it possible that he could have 
contemplated all these beauties, without becoming passion- 
ately in love with his model ? 

A dark shadow* passed over Rameau’s mind. A thousand 
thoughts that had never touched him with their wings of 
flame, cruelly consumed him. All Talvanne’s suspicions, 
at the beginning, of their intimacy with Munzel; the hostil- 
ity of his friend, as instinctive as that of a faithful dog; his 
warnings when Conchita went alone to Frantz’s studio, — all 
this came back to his mind, distinct, terrible, overwhelm- 
ing. He did not now experience that confidence which 
made him receive with raillery all these suspicions. In an 
instant, consuming jealousy had destroyed it with its dead- 
ly leaven. Rameau suddenly endured such tortures that 
he could with difficulty prevent himself from crying out in 
anguish. He threw down the miniature that he held in 
his hand, and then with an anxiety that he could no longer 
subdue, he began to rummage all the drawers, all the com- 
partments of the bureau, throwing aside rather hastily and 
rudely those objects that a moment before were adored as 
sacred relics. 

Seized with a horrible curiosity, he now wished to pene- 
trate the secrets of the woman with whom he had lived for 
ten years in confiding serenity. He violated the mysteries 
of death, he profaned the silence of the tomb, chagrined 
that Conchita was no longer before him, not for the sake 
of loving her, but of interrogating, upbraiding, abusing 
her. All his love turned to hatred, at the thought that she, 
whom he had so passionately regretted, whom he mourned 
even at that very moment, could have deceived him, could 
have withheld from him a frolic, or concealed an adventure. 
He clenched his hands and ground his teeth. Yes, it had 
come to that. He admitted to himself that the dead worn 
an might have been infamous, after all, and he sought 
fiercely for proofs of her crime. 

To hasten his task, he pulled the drawers from the bu- 


1 62 


The Discovery. 


reau, and emptied their contents on the carpet. His rest- 
less hands explored every corner and crevice with the skill 
of a detective. He seemed to suspect a secret hiding- 
place, but he found nothing, and his anger, deprived of 
fuel, consumed itself, the more furiously as it was the less 
founded. All at once he uttered a cry of surprise. In ex- 
amining the inner partition of the buieau, his fingers ran 
against a bulging spot, and, pressing it, he discovered a 
double bottom in the shelf. 

He remained motionless for a moment. The eagerness 
and determination of his search for the proof of her guilt 
was now equalled by his fear of having discovered it. He 
was tortured by doubt, but still it was doubt, and not cer- 
tainty. The proof was now before him in that obscure 
and dusty corner. He had only to insert his hand to bring 
it forth, and yet he hesitated, overcome in presence of 
this material fact, of this palpable testimony, which would 
dissipate all doubt and forever destroy his illusion. 

He looked in scrutinizingly. His eye caught a small 
white package, tied round with a faded ribbon, in the nar- 
row space. He thrust in his hand, and, drawing it forth, 
went over to the window and sat down. He slowly untied 
the ribbon, removed the paper envelope, and found over a 
score of letters. A last supreme hope was kindled in his 
heart. If, after all, they were letters of her father or 
mother, that she had kept as pious souvenirs ! 

But why conceal them, if they contained nothing wrong ? 
Why this double bottom, and this mistrust? No!’ The 
correspondence was not innocent ; it did not come, it could 
not come from any other than a lover ! Everything at- 
tested it, proved it, and the name of the wretch would ap- 
pear at the bottom of the infamous letters. 

With a delicacy of touch, as if he were handling poison, 
Rameau unfolded one of the faded letters, and recognized, 
with horror, Munzel’s writing. He ran his eye over the 
accusing lines. It was the first letter received by Con- 
chita after Munzel’s departure, and the pain of the separa- 


The Discovery . 


163 

tion was depicted with passionate eloquence. Love burst 
forth in every sentence, but the feeling of remorse was 
painted, with a power of expression that made Rameau 
shudder. Certainly, the friend was guilty, but the wife 
more so. The whole story of the crime was traced here 
in words of burning passion and sorrow : the resolute will 
of the mistress, who summoned her lover back, and the 
fervent protestations of the miserable wretch, tortured be- 
tween the pleasure of his memories and the execration of 
his treason. He cursed the weakness that had induced 
him to betray his friend, yet his love was such that he 
could not sincerely regret his crime. And thus racked by 
the regret for his happiness and the thought of his igno- 
miny, he fled beyond the seas, to make sure his escape 
from his dangerous temptation. 

All the horrible reality of the past appeared to Rameau 
at that moment. He understood why Munzel lamented, 
in telling him that he loved, but that an imperative reason 
compelled him to go away. He recalled the pale brow of 
the wounded man in the little soap-factory of Saint-Maur, 
and his supplicating looks when dying in Talvanne’s room 
at Vincennes. Munzel was almost happy in dying under 
the eyes of Rameau, in his arms, aided by him, as if by re- 
ceiving his care he also received his forgiveness. 

He remembered how he spoke to him, and all the sup- 
pliance, the regret, the tenderness in his weakened voice. 
Oh ! Frantz ! Companion of youth ! Friend of so many 
happy and sorrowful hours, treated like a brother for so 
many years, was it possible that he could have forgotten 
all, and for a woman’s sake ? What poison love must have 
poured into his heart, to extinguish all these delicate 
sentiments, all this noble pride that lent such value to 
his friendship. What! For such short-lived bliss, the 
awakening from which had been so cruel, to betray all, to 
profane all! To outrage a man for whom he would have died 
without hesitation ! To sully the honor of him who would 
have risked for him his life and liberty ! 


164 


The Discovery. 


A feeling of sorrow took possession of Rameau. His 
suffering was no longer physical ; he had lost all feeling 
of anger. Jealousy no longer stirred his blood. The 
storm was higher up ; it raged within his brain. He de- 
plored his ruined faith, his vanished illusions. He had 
believed in humanity alone, and humanity had betrayed 
him. He had made man the only master of nature, and 
the man, in whom he had placed his most lively confidence, 
had proved to be miserable and infamous. What, then, 
remained ? Nothing. 

He turned to his philosophy in his despair. It was im- 
potent. He appealed to it for comfort, reason, argument. 
It returned no answer that could relieve his mind or soothe 
his heart. In his despair he exclaimed: “The faithful at 
least have God.” Then, by an uprising of his rebellious 
mind, he protested against this surrender of his convic- 
tions. Was not this falling back on the idea of a superior 
being an indication of cowardice ? Did not this need of 
connecting himself with a celestial power arise from the 
fear of seeing himself abandoned and given over to him- 
self ? He had formerly laughed at this need, at this fear, 
and to-day he experienced them. He was on the point of 
yielding. 

The humiliation entailed by such weakness gave rise to a 
sudden violence in his heart. He laughed cynically. Ah ! 
ah ! the supreme succor of religion ! Was it then this se- 
cret anguish, which he now suffered, that, at the moment 
of death, bent so many unbelieving minds at the feet of 
religion ? He had just experienced the sentiment of 
moral solitude, which appalled the most sceptical and im- 
pelled them to populate that solitude with a God. He re- 
belled against such cowardly hypocrisy. 

Was this religion, which was represented as a supreme 
and sole consolation, anything else than a lie and a decep- 
tion ? Was not devotion marvellously allied with error? 
He knew what the devotee could dare. He had loved one, 
and piety did not turn her away from vice. It even in- 


The Discovery . 


165 

duced her to practice it ; the certainty of absolution facili- 
tated her fall. A short repentance, a few prayers, and 
the woman, assured of her forgiveness, returned to evil. 
Could anything more infamous be conceived than this 
periodicity of repentance and crime ? 

He was at this moment seized by an access* of fury. A 
cold perspiration covered his pale face. He would have 
slain the guilty one had she appeared in his presence. He 
no longer accused Frantz. It was she who was responsi- 
ble for all. It was she who had seduced her accomplice. 
He looked back, and saw himself hated by her. From the 
day when he had refused to lend himself to her mystic 
fantasies, she had rejected him from her heart, and be- 
tween her and him her religion was erected, like an ac- 
cursed barrier. 

He paced the room excitedly, tumbling aside every 
article of furniture that came in his way. His anger pur- 
sued her who had betrayed him beyond the tomb. He 
heaped reproaches, abuse on her memory, and the more 
he thought on the affair the more aggravated her offence 
appeared to his mind. He raised his head suddenly, and 
his eyes fell on the accursed canvas from which Conchita 
smiled down, with her love-flowers in her hand. It seemed 
to him that the charming face looked at him in defiance. 
It was at her lover she smiled thus, he said to himself. 

A wave of wrath bounded from his heart to his brain. 
With a muttered curse he seized the gilded frame, rent it 
from the wall, and flung it on the floor. The noise re- 
sounded throughout the house as it smashed to pieces in a 
cloud of dust. The portrait still smiled from the canvas 
as it lay on the floor. Rameau advanced, and stamped 
his heel on the charming face. Growing more excited, he 
trampled on it with frenzied rage, exclaiming : 

“There! miserable wretch, base and false creature! 
Would that I could crush thyself as I do this type of thy 
hypocrisy ! ” 

With clenched hand and disordered hair and frenzied 


The Discovery. 


1 66 

rage, he seemed bereft of his senses. As he continued to 
heap his abuse on the dead, the door of the room was 
opened, and his daughter, impelled by uneasiness and 
trembling with emotion, appeared. On seeing her enter, 
Rameau suddenly grew quiet. He gazed at his daughter 
and imagined that he saw in her the image of Conchita, 
but with the blonde hair and blue eyes of Munzel. Adri- 
enne seeing her father in the midst of the debris around, 
his clothes in disorder, and acting like a madman, did 
not dare to advance a step. Rameau, after a pause, cried 
out ; 

“ What do you come here for?” 

The young girl grew pale, and extending her hands sup- 
pllcatingly, began : 

“ Father ” 

“ Silence ! ” he broke in with an angry gesture. “ Don’t 
repeat that word, and especially in this infamous room. 
Go away from my sight ! let me see you no more ! You 
fill me with horror ! ” 

At these words, so different from those which that father 
so tenderly loved addressed to her every day, Adrienne 
gave a start, as if to escape from some terrible apparition. 
The blood flowed back to her heart, which seemed to sink 
within her. A haze obscured her sight, her feet weakened 
under her, and her face assumed a livid hue. 

“ Pray, what is the matter ? you frighten me,” she stam- 
mered. “ Why do you scold me so ? Have I done any- 
thing wrong?” 

“Wrong ! you are the very incarnation of wrong,” cried 
Rameau, his eyes aflame with fury. “Wrong ! you are the 
living expression of wrong ! You are wrong itself! Yes, 
you are the odious proof of the infamy, whose memory 
you perpetuate ! I do not know what prevents me from 
killing you ! ” 

And as he spoke he seized her by the shoulder and 
shook her violently. She did not utter a word, over- 
whelmed with fear as she was, not for herself, but for her 


167 


The Discovery . 

father. She believed him to be insane. Her heart was 
bruised with pain, the tears rolled down her cheeks, her 
strength gave way, and she sank to her knees, as if plead- 
ing for mercy. On seeing her prostrate at his feet, Ra- 
meau’s reason returned. He now only saw before him the 
child on whom he had so fondly doted for the past eighteen 
years. 

He reached out his hands to her, and cried ; 

“ Adrienne.” 

“ Oh ! it is over ; it is you ; you are yourself once more,” 
exclaimed the girl in an access of joy. 

She tried to put her arms around his neck, to appease 
him, to reconquer him. But he chanced to glance over the 
room. His eyes again rested on the demolished portrait, 
the torn letters, the scattered furniture. All the terrible 
truth again took possession of his mind, and his face again 
assumed an implacable expression. He pushed the girl 
from him, tore himself from her embrace, and in a thun- 
dering voice said : 

“Away ! No more pretence ! I do not wish to be any 
longer deceived. Begone from here ? ” 

With hand extended, standing erect and trembling with 
anger, he pointed to the door. Adrienne, crushed by the 
sudden transition from hope to the most cruel deception, 
did not even utter a sigh. She turned deathly pale, and 
fell prostrate on the floor. At the same moment Rosalie, 
attracted by the noise, entered. She saw the young girl 
lying in the midst of the shattered furniture ; she flung her- 
self on her, lifted her, enfolded her in her arms, and felt her 
to assure herself that she was still living. She cast a be- 
seeching glance at Rameau, who was standing sombre, 
moveless, and impassible, and then, without uttering a 
word, raised the girl in her arms, and passing by the father 
with her precious burden, disappeared from the room. 
She had no sooner gone than Rameau also passed out, 
locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and walked 
slowly to his cabinet. 


1 68 


The Discovery . 


Rosalie, on reaching Adrienne’s apartment, called out 
excitedly for assistance. Two servants hurried to her 
presence. As they raised their hands to heaven, uttering 
exclamations of alarm, Rosalie sharply said to them : 

“ Silence ! Mademoiselle has been taken suddenly ill. 
Let one of you prepare her bed, and the other run down 
and tell the coachman to drive immediately for Dr. Tal- 
vanne at Vincennes, and the valet to hasten for Robert 
and bring him immediately.” 

They hurried away without a word. Rosalie, now left 
alone, laid Adrienne on a sofa, and taking a bottle of eau- 
de-cologne, endeavored to revive her. Lying, with her 
rich blonde hair loosened, her eyes closed, and her face 
white as marble, like a youthful martyr, the young girl 
presented such a picture of beauty that Rosalie forgot 
herself a moment to gaze at her. Then, seized with unea- 
siness, she bathed the temples and the palms of her hands, 
reviving her, tending her ; she talked to her, called her 
softly and tenderly, but the girl still remained moveless. 
A profound silence again reigned in the house. The storm 
had ceased, but the calm that succeeded was perhaps more 
pregnant with menace and violence. 

A rapid step in the corridor startled Rosalie, and open- 
ing the door she found herself in the presence of Robert. 
He asked no questions, and she offered no explanation. 
He saw the girl stretched, stiff and motionless. He took 
her by the hand, felt her pulse, and, somewhat reassured, 
examined her face closely. The eyes had grown purple, 
and the teeth were firmly set. 

“ Bring me some ether,” he said, addressing Rosalie. 
She hurried out, and in a twinkling reappeared with a bot- 
tle and a spoon. Robert poured out a few drops, and not 
without difficulty succeeded in introducing the liquor be- 
tween her tightened teeth. A slight glow tinged her 
cheeks ; she uttered a sigh, and slowly lifted her eyelids. 
She appeared to recognize who was attending her, a mourn- 
ful smile passed over her colorless lips, and she again grew 


The Discovery . 169 

pale and inert. But the swoon had passed away, and the 
hands, a moment before icy and rigid, had become now 
moist and supple. 

“ She must be put in bed,” said Robert. And as Rosalie 
nodded her assent, he added : 

“ Where is her father ? ” 

The old governess contracted her brow, pondered for a 
moment, as if she understood that she had to act a serious 
part, and then, without looking in his face, replied : 

“ The doctor is gone out since breakfast. But we have 
sent for him, as also for Dr. Talvanne/* 

“ Come,” he said, without waiting for further explana- 
tions, “ let us lift her up ; we can carry her ; she is not 
heavy, the little darling.” 

Her bedroom-door was open. The chamber was hung 
in white silk, ornamented with pink flowers, with furniture 
white, fresh, clean, virginal, all arranged with exquisite 
taste. Robert entered it for the first time, and it seemed 
to him that the danger of death alone could afford an ex- 
cuse for the violation of so sacred a spot. He bent over 
the girl’s placid face, and he shuddered at the thought 
these beautiful eyes now closed might never look on him 
again. He wished to dispel this gloomy presentiment. 
He saw everything around him animated and joyous. But 
at the same moment a cloud passed over the sun, the skies 
grew dark, and the chamber sombre and gloomy. He 
heard confusedly Rosalie say to him : 

“ Return to the parlor. I will call you as soon as I have 
put her to bed.” 

He retired mechanically, troubled in mind, beginning to 
experience a violent uneasiness. He appealed to his mem- 
ory to recall what maladies manifested, as a primary symp- 
tom, syncope followed by a state of complete physical 
prostration. There were a score of such at least. “ What 
would become of me,” he thought, “ if I were obliged to 
treat her ! In what a state of anxiety I would live ! How 
limited is this knowledge of which we are so proud, and how 


i^o The Discovery. 

We understand its impotence when we have to depend on it 
in serving those whom we love ! What will Dr. Rameau 
do ? ” The thought that Adrienne’s father would soon arrive 
and himself combat the malady aroused Robert’s waning 
courage. He had such a complete faith in his master that 
he recovered his calmness while awaiting his arrival. 

He felt confident and tranquil, like the soldier com- 
manded by an ever-victorious general. The doctor, with 
his unerring glance, would diagnose the illness. And as 
to the treatment to be undertaken, his marvellously in- 
ventive mind would certainly discover some sovereign 
remedy Rameau had so many times performed miracles, 
like the thaumaturgus of antiquity, that Robert enter- 
tained no fear but that at the decisive moment a prodigy 
would be performed that would assure the safety of the 
patient. She was his own daughter ! What would he not 
be able to effect, when the dearest being on earth to him 
was threatened? Frequently, Robert knew, physicians, 
and not the least celebrated either, had shrunk from the 
task of treating their own wives and children. They had 
experienced the same confusion and annihilation of the 
faculties that he himself had just felt so keenly. But 
would not Rameau be proof against such weakness ? Was 
he not by his force of character and his superior intellect 
above the ordinary grade of humanity ? 

Rosalie, in passing through the parlor, aroused the 
young man from his meditations. He questioned her with 
a look. 

“ She seems to be sleeping,” she replied, in a low tone. 
“You may come in.” 

He approached the bed with noiseless step, and there 
saw Adrienne lying, her eyes closed as before, but with a 
healthy blush in her cheeks. Her white arm, lying on the 
coverlet, palpitated, as if all the nerves were set in motion 
by an interior agitation. The respiration was quick and 
somewhat sibilant, and the teeth set, as usual, by a violent 
contraction. This grave condition of the patient re- 


The Discovery . 1 7 1 

awakened fears. No ; Adrienne was not sleeping. And 
the utter prostration in which she was buried indicated 
some serious organic disorders. 

He arose and went over to the window. The soldiers 
were going through their daily drill on the esplanade of 
the Invalides. He looked at the clock ; an hour had al- 
ready passed since his arrival at the house. A feverish 
impatience seized him. What Was Rameau doing that he 
would not come ? Where was Talvanne ? What should 
he prescribe in their absence, and how could he dare to 
decide on it ? He felt it impossible for him thus to remain 
alone by the bedside of her whom he adored and watch 
her lying before him in utter unconsciousness. He was 
about to ring the bell when the rattle of a carriage in the 
yard stopped his hand. He felt immediate relief. At last 
assistance had come ; he would be no longer left to him- 
self. 

The voice of Talvanne on the stairway led him to the 
door of the parlor. He opened it, and the alienist en- 
tered, almost breathless. 

“ Ah, here you are!" he said, excitedly. “Well, how 
is she?" 

“All the time the same. A sort of febrile somno- 
lence " 

Talvanne, interrupting him, said : 

“Let us make an examination." 

He passed into the room. Rosalie was standing by the 
head of the bed. Talvanne looked at Adrienne attentively 
as she lay moveless. He gently raised her eyelid. A 
sudden strabismus had dimmed her sight. He felt the 
forehead, crowned with its wealth of golden hair, and 
found it burning. He placed his hand under her neck 
and felt it minutely. Adrienne heaved a painful sigh. Tal- 
vanne’s face became overcast, and he glanced at Rosalie 
and Robert. He noticed that they were anxiously await- 
ing his judgment. He shook his head, coughed dryly, 
and said : 


7 2 


The Discovery . 


“We must see ” 

Then, addressing Rosalie : 

“ Where is Rameau ? ” 

“ He has just come in this moment." 

As Robert manifested profound surprise at these words, 
and was about to question her, Rosalie, with an air of au- 
thority, took Talvanne aside, and, in a trembling voice, 
said : 

“ Go down and fina him ; he is in his office, and try and 
bring him to reason. The most unfortunate things took 
place here to-day. God grant that all this will not cost us 
the life of our poor child ! ” 

Talvanne, astounded at this information, was about to 
ask for a more complete explanation. She seemed to read 
his thought, and, cutting short his curiosity, said : 

“ It is not for me to enlighten you. Go down to him ; 
question him. He will tell you what took place, if he 
wish and if he dare to do so. Yes, he will dare. He is 
a terrible man. A little while ago I thought he was going 
to kill that poor little creature there ! ” 

“Kill her!” repeated Talvanne, growing pale; “Ro- 
salie, reflect a little on what you say.” 

“ He did not reflect on what he did,” she replied, with 
bitterness. “ He was crazy — crazy with anger ! ” 

She paused an instant, and then continued, in a serious 
tone : 

“ But why make the innocent suffer for the sins of 
others ? ” 

Rosalie and Talvanne looked in one another’s faces, 
both deeply moved. These words were enough. A mys- 
terious communication had taken place between them. In 
a second everything was explained, and Talvanne was pre- 
pared for what he was to hear. He exclaimed : 

“ Ah ! Ah ! ” 

And these two interjections signified plainly : 

“What ! You knew so many things, for such a length 
of time, without anybody knowing it ?” 


New Revelations. 


i/3 


To which the good Rosalie replied by an affirmative 
nod. Talvanne then turned toward Robert, who had re- 
mained standing beside the bed, and said : 

“Wait for me here, I will be up in a moment with Ra- 
meau.” 

And, leaving the young man, assisted by Rosalie, he has- 
tened his steps toward his friend’s cabinet. 


CHAPTER X. 

NEW REVELATIONS. 

After this last access of rage which had driven him 
to the most violent extremity, Rameau remained for some 
time in a state of immobility. Seated in his deep arm- 
chair, he felt as if overcome with fatigue, and his brain 
seemed to be a void. One might have cried out to him 
that the house was on fire, and he would not have stirred. 
He was indifferent to everything, and the shipwreck of his 
life left him prostrated — annihilated. What had he to fear 
now ? What could happen to him worse than that which 
he had already endured ? Was his life, irremediably 
wrecked, worth saving? What regret should he feel in 
closing his eyes forever ? He would only cease to look 
upon this earth, so fruitful in misfortune ; this world, so 
full of baseness. He would pass happily into nothingness 
— that is to say, insensibility. 

Everything had deceived, betrayed him, in this miserable 
life that he cursed. Fate had not even the charity to re- 
spect his last illusion. He was destined to suffer the pangs 
of passion, to taste its bitterness, to feel its thorns. He 
had been knowingly tortured, and his torturers were be- 
yond his reach. There was no vengeance for him. Death 
had prevented that, And he, like an idiot, bitterly mourn- 


74 


New Revelations . 


ing the guilty pair, for the alleviation of whose sufferings 
he had even attempted the impossible. 

Oh ! if it were only to begin over again ! If he only 
had them before him to spew his contempt and hatred on 
them, to delight in their misery, and to see them tremble 
with icy fear. But no, they had breathed their last breath 
in his nursing arms, under his comforting look, calm as if 
their consciences had nothing to reproach them with. 
They had died as they had lived — liars and hypocrites!. 
And what was to become of himself ? Where would he 
find the energy necessary to endure this last crushing 
misfortune? To still live, after so many deceptions, when 
life had nothing to offer but new tortures ! Why should 
he desire it ? Supreme rest, behold what was needed. 

And he could so easily procure it ! He had only to take 
a few steps, to open a closet, and from among the many 
poisonous substances that it contained, take a bottle, swal- 
low a few drops, and painlessly sink into everlasting sleep. 
There need be no scandal around his grave. It would be 
thought a case of cerebral congestion. The traces of the 
poison would be difficult to discover, and his end would 
appear natural. 

He smiled grimly on feeling himself master of his des- 
tiny. He experienced a sort of relief, as one feels after 
the settlement of a difficulty. Having made up his mind 
to rid himself of all his sorrow and pain, he now felt them 
less keenly. He found the strength to rise and take a 
few steps around the room. His glance fell, in passing, 
on the papers that covered his desk, and he said to him- 
self that he would not complete the work he had begun. 

After all, of what use was that work in which he had 
taken so much interest ? What value did it possess ? On 
what certain foundation had he placed it ? Was not every- 
thing in this frail world subject to error? Who could 
flatter himself with being right, and knowing the absolute 
truth ? 

Thus meditating, he proceeded slowly to the labora- 


New Revelations . 


175 


tory. He opened a closet, and scanned a number of red- 
labelled bottles on the shelves. He took one, a small vial, 
held it up to the light, as if to be sure, shut the closet, re- 
turned to his study, placed the bottle on a table within 
reach of his hand, and sat down. He decided to wait an 
hour, in order to think if he had any important disposition 
to make before taking leave of life. He thought of Tal- 
vanne, and a shadow passed over his countenance. 

Talvanne loved him sincerely and with a profound affec- 
tion, of which he had given marks every hour of his life. 
Was he, then, going to separate from this faithful com- 
panion, without leaving him a proof that he had not for- 
gotten him ? What ! Not a word, not a souvenir, not a 
final secret? The idea that Talvanne would reproach his 
memory for this apparent neglect oppressed Rameau’s 
heart. He arose, and, approaching the bureau, determined 
to write a farewell note to his friend, when the door sud- 
denly opened and the latter appeared. 

They stood and gazed at one another for a moment. 
Both were pale. Suddenly Talvanne’s eyes fell on the 
little red-labelled bottle. He stepped over, seized it, read 
the inscription, and, with a cry of astonishment, exclaimed: 

“ You, Rameau ! A man like you, to do that ! ” 

The doctor, without hinting any denial, simply replied: 

“ I am so unhappy ! ” 

“ But what is it all about ? ” cried Talvanne, in an almost 
angry tone, for the trouble of the friend whom he loved 
more than he did himself seemed to him so unjust and 
cruel. 

A dark fire lit up Rameau’s eyes. 

“ What is it all about ? You shall know it.” 

He grasped his friend’s hand, and, without adding a 
word, led him out of the room, through the corridor, up 
the stairs, and stopped at the door of his dead wife’s 
apartment. He opened the door, and again yielding to an 
outburst of anger, said: 

“ Behold the debris of all that I once worshipped ! All 


New Revelations. 


i 7 6 

is overthrown, torn, sullied, and profaned ! Well, there is 
less ruin than there is in my heart ; less defilement and 
profanation than in my mind. You ask me what it is all 
about ? The treason of a friend, the unfaithfulness of a 
wife ! All my existence tarnished and dishonored ! That 
is what it is. Does that seem to you a sufficient cause of 
shame and pain ? And have I not the right, since these 
two wretches are dead and no longer suffer, to die, in my 
turn, and suffer no more ? ” 

“ And what assurance have you," gravely answered Tal- 
vanne, “ that you will suffer no more ? Who can prove to 
you that they do not suffer, and terribly ? And even were 
you a hundred times more to be pitied, is that any reason 
why you should give yourself up to folly and despair ? 
Have you forgotten all the virtue, goodness, and purity 
that encircles you ? I do not count for anything, any 
more, then ? And Adrienne ? ” 

Rameau frowned, looked downward, but made no reply. 

Talvanne continued: 

“ This poor little girl, innocent of all your sufferings — 
why do you hold her responsible for them ? Is that gener- 
ous ? Is it reasonable ? She has had for you, since the 
beginning of her existence, only caresses and smiles. And 
you have thrust her away from you, terrified her, treated 
her outrageously, even while she supplicated and clung to 
you. Now she is ill, and you are the cause of it. Ra- 
meau, I am deeply, sincerely attached to you. I am very 
partial whenever you are in question, but I can find no ex- 
cuse for you in this matter.” 

The doctor listened unmoved. He remained obstinately 
silent. 

Talvanne looked at him with alarm, and asked: 

“ Have you not heard what I said ? ” 

Rameau nodded his head in assent. 

0 It is about your daughter I am talking to you,” re- 
sumed Talvanne, earnestly. “ Do you understand ? Your 
daughter ! ” 


New Revelations. 


1 77 

The doctor raised his head, and in a deep, deliberate 
tone, repeated: 

“ My daughter ! Are you sure of it ? ” 

Talvanne’s face assumed a stern aspect, and he replied 
in a firm voice : 

“ If your heart will not yield to my reply, all I can say 
will not convince you. I will, therefore, change my method 
of arguing with you. There is a human creature yonder, 
under your roof, suffering, whom you can relieve, and I 
ask you if, as a man, you can refuse to appear at her pil- 
low, and, as a physician, you can refuse to treat her ? ” 

Without uttering a word Rameau arose, and, followed 
by his friend, hastened toward the sick girl’s apartment. 
The door was open, and through the obscurity of the room 
a lamp, placed on the chimney-piece, flung a ray of light. 
On hearing the steps of the two men Robert appeared at 
the door. On seeing Rameau he could not suppress an 
exclamation of joy, an exclamation familiar to the doctor, 
and which every one uttered on seeing him come to bring 
succor and safety to their friends in their dire extremity. 
The doctor passed by his pupil, who advanced to meet 
him, pointing, as he passed to the salon, and saying : 

“ Go in there and wait for me.” 

He made Talvanne pass on, and he followed him into 
the room. Adrienne lay before him, tossing her head on 
the pillow, as if seeking to find some way of easing her 
pain. Her half-closed eyes were dull and blank. The 
pallor of her face accentuated the rigidity of her features, 
hard and moveless as a mask of marble. Talvanne ap- 
proached the bed, and pointing to the girl said : 

“ She seems to suffer greatly. Look at the poor little 
creature. Is she the same child that we saw yesterday, so 
fresh, so rosy, so vivacious, with her lovely smiling lips, 
and eyes radiant with joy?” 

“ No ! She is no longer the same,” replied Rameau in a 
grave tone. 

" It only required an instant,” continued Talvanne, “ for 


78 


New Revelations. 


that vigorous health to disappear, and that flower of youth 
to fade. And all this misfortune and pain that this deli- 
cious creature, whom we regarded as the joy of our life, 
now suffers has been inflicted by you.” 

“ By me ! ” repeated Rameau gloomily, without protest- 
ing against the reproach levelled at him by his friend. 

“And you look on her with insensible eyes,” continued 
Talvanne, “ you who but yesterday overwhelmed her with 
your love ; you remain moveless and inactive before her, 
you who would have left everything to run to her, if you 
were told that the least mishap had occurred to her. If 
anybody had predicted that you would become so unnat- 
ural, would you not have replied that such a thing was 
impossible?” 

“ I would, indeed.” 

“ And yet it is so. And you think and reason, and yet 
persist in your unexpected, cruel, and absurd indifference.” 

Rameau advanced a step toward the bed, and closely 
scanned Adrienne’s face. He took hold of his friend’s 
arm, pressed it nervously, and pointing to the girl said : 

“ Study that rounded forehead, those cheek-bones, and 
that delicately-formed nose. You, a savant, who have 
made anthropology the study of your life, do you not see 
here all the distinctive signs of the Spanish race? See 
how plainly that face shows the mark of its Berber origin. 
The Moors have passed there, Talvanne, and there is no 
denying it. Would it not be the head of her mother, fea- 
ture for feature, if the lower portion did not betray the 
mixture of the Saxon race ? Is not that chin, just a trifle 
heavy as you see, a clear German type ? Examine that 
head and you will find all the signs that distinguish the 
subbrachycephalus. Take your measurements, after the 
method of Camper, or that of the Englishman Morton, or 
of the Frenchman Broca, and you will find no other solu- 
tion than that which I indicate, or else your science is but 
a vain word ! ” 

“And is not that what you have told me a hundred 


New Revelations . 


179 


times ? ” exclaimed Talvanne in despair. “ You never be- 
lieved in my science. Are you now going, in order to fur- 
nish arguments for your injustice, to have recourse to the- 
ories that you have always combated ? Rameau, take 
compassion on that child and on yourself. Do not yield 
to irrational prejudices and foolish suspicions.” 

Rameau bent his head, and, with a calmness still more 
crushing than his former anger, replied : 

“ Do not deny the light. It illumines us, and one must 
be blind not to see it. The blonde hair and the blue eyes 
of her for whom you plead with me, are those of Munzel. 
Look at her ! — there, while her features are contracted. Is 
it not he, just as he was when I attended him, in the little 
room in the Rue de la Harpe ? She resembles him so 
clearly that I cannot understand how it is that the fact did 
not strike me sooner. But our wretched species is so 
credulous ! A child ! It is so flattering to a man ! He 
believes it is his own, quite naturally, through a stupid 
pride ! Ah ! ah ! ah ! ” 

He burst into a grim laugh, and pressing his hand on 
his bosom, as if to restrain the violent pain that was gnaw- 
ing at his heart, he continued : 

“ I adored that little girl ! You cannot deny that my 
sole thought was of her during the eighteen years of her 
existence. You said so a moment ago. She was my pas- 
sion, my mania. Well ! Now the sight of her fills me 
with horror, and I hate her ! She is suffering, and I look 
on ; she is seriously ill, and may, perhaps, die, and I will 
not lift a finger to save her ! She is born of two others, 
she belongs to two others, and let her now go into the 
earth with them ! ” 

“ Rameau ! ” exclaimed Talvanne, appalled. 

“ My good friend,” continued the doctor with a chilling 
coolness, “ it would be easy for me to be a hypocrite, and 
to talk nonsense to you, but such a thing would be unwor- 
thy of you and me. I reveal my heart to you as it is ; I 
communicate my thoughts to you without reserve. I am 


i8o 


New Revelations. 


a monster, perhaps. I do not say I am not. But I cannot 
be anything else than what I am. I hate that innocent 
creature, for all the caresses she has stolen from me, and 
all the kisses I have rapturously imprinted on her odious 
flesh. For eighteen years I have been a dupe ; that is 
enough.” 

“ And you do not shudder at the thought that she 
suffers ? ” 

“ Why should I shudder? What bonds unite me to her? 
There is nothing of me in her. I am sure of it, and so are 
you. Then, why should my blood or my nerves be stirred ? 
But my mind is indignant and furious. Then what do you 
ask of me?” 

Talvanne wiped away the perspiration that rolled down 
his forehead. He drew a long breath, and then, with forced 
resolve, replied : 

“ I ask your opinion on the malady. Let her be a stran- 
ger, if you will — a person wholly indifferent to you, an 
enemy, even. What does it matter? You have come to 
her bedside as a favor to me ; examine her, then.” 

Rameau went over to the bedside. The pallor on his 
cheeks grew more marked, and his eyes seemed to sink 
deeper under their beetling brows. His hands trembled. 
He bent over Adrienne ; he put his face close to hers, and 
listened to her panting, fitful breathing. His look was 
serious, but not troubled. He raised the patient’s eyelids 
and examined the eyes ; he took in his hand her round, 
soft, delicious arm, that was burning with fever. He ex- 
amined her carefully, minutely, and then slowly stepped 
aside. He seemed to be calculating the probabilities. 
Finally he remarked, in a low voice : 

“There is at present considerable cerebral inflammation. 
The meninges are seriously affected ; but what is most to 
be feared is an intestinal accident on account of the abrupt 
displacement of the blood. Peritonitis may set in to- 
morrow. If the peritonitis spreads, there will be grave 
danger.” 


New Revelations . 181 

And as Talvanne’s face showed astonishment rather than 
fear, Rameau, with the confirmed coolness of an old prac- 
titioner, added : 

“ As to the rest, you may call in whom you choose — 
Larcher, Sourdain, or Buyot. I approve in advance every- 
thing that will be decided on.” 

“ It is a method you adopt to relieve yourself of any in- 
terest in the matter,” said Talvanne, in a bitter tone. 

Rameau made no answer. He opened the door, and, 
perceiving Robert, who was anxiously awaiting them : 

“ You can go home, my boy,” he said, in a peremptory 
tone. “ You will come back to-morrow to learn the news. 
There is nothing to fear for the present — so sleep in 
peace.” 

And, passing by his pupil, who remained dumfounded 
at being removed at the moment when he was ready to 
devote himself body and soul to the necessities of the 
hour, he gained the corridor, where the sound of his foot- 
steps was soon lost in the darkness. Talvanne, with a 
violent agitation that he no longer tried to conceal, rushed 
over to Robert, and. pointing in the direction Rameau had 
gone, said excitedly : 

“ Follow him ; go into his cabinet ; and, no matter what 
he may say, do not leave him until I come to take your 
place. Go quickly.” 

He almost pushed him out of the room ; and, seeing the 
young man obey him without a word, he uttered a sigh of 
relief. He then brought Rosalie to the sick-room, and 
left her to watch and attend Adrienne. He took a pen 
and paper, and began to write a long prescription. While 
he was writing, the feverish tension that had sustained him 
for several hours past, subsided ; his nerves relaxed, and 
all the horror of the situation appeared to him. She who 
was suffering— she for whom he was ordering these power- 
ful remedies — was the child of his heart, the adorable 
being to whom he had devoted all his affections, and who 
filled the last solitary years of his bachelorhood with pleas- 


182 


New Revelations . 


ure and joy. A shadow seemed to pass before his eyes ; 
he raised his head, and Rosalie, approaching him, said, 
with an accent of thankfulness : 

“ You love her ? ” 

“And him also,” answered Talvanne. 

And as she shook her head sadly, she added : 

“He is suffering — suffering unjustly, and he blames the 
whole world for that suffering and that injustice. But he 
will see clearly by-and-by, and all will be changed.” 

“ May God grant it ! For if everything be not changed, 
none of us need expect much happiness in the future.” 

They exchanged looks. Talvanne and Rosalie under- 
stood one another’s meaning at once. And so, never, dur- 
ing all these years, did the old servant, who was so fully 
acquainted with the cause of the drama that had upset the 
house, give the slightest indication by word or act that 
she had penetrated the mystery. She had known all, seen 
all, concealed all, through her devotion to Conchita and 
her love for Adrienne. 

Talvanne understood that he would have a tireless helper 
in Rosalie : that she was ready to make every kind of sac- 
rifice. She would attend to the sick girl day and night. 
This thought afforded him great relief. He could thus 
devote himself exclusively to the struggle that he wished to 
wage with Rameau. He asked himself if it was necessary 
to confide to Robert all or a part of the terrible secret. 
He knew the young man well enough to be sure that his 
love would resist the trial, and that nothing could change 
his heart. Besides, was Adrienne responsible for the 
wrong that weighed so heavily upon her ? She was the 
victim of an implacable fatality, and so was the more in- 
teresting. He said to himself, “ I could adore her for her 
misfortune alone.” 

A smile passed over his lips, and he thought, “ No ; I 
talk foolishly ; I am dramatizing ; I could adore her be- 
cause she is herself — that is to say, the most charming, 
beautiful, and attractive creature in the world. Alas ! her 


New Revelations . 183 

mother was such another. Hence all our misery. These 
are the women that men cannot help loving.” 

Another idea now suggested itself to his mind — namely, 
“What must Robert think of Rameau, apparently out of 
his senses ? What strange suppositions he must entertain ! 
He is too intelligent not to guess that events of the most 
extraordinary kind are taking place here at this moment. 
And what causes will he assign for this state of things ? 
How must it strike him to have seen for twenty years a 
man exhibit the solidity and clearness of mind of Rameau 
suddenly conduct himself like a madman ? Then it would 
be more prudent to let him know all. He would sincerely 
pity his patron and respect him all the more. But per- 
haps it would be best to be guided by events ! ” 

He arose, and, handing to Rosalie the prescription he 
had written, said : 

“ Send this to the druggist, and let the bearer wait for 
the medicine. Meantime, continue the present treatment, 
and if any change occurs send for me immediately, 
shall be down-stairs with the doctor.” 

He returned to the bedside of the girl, as if he could not 
force himself to leave it, no matter how imperative the 
necessity which called him to Rameau. He examined 
her once more, and found her brow still burning, but her 
skin more moist. At the same moment she moved and 
opened her eyes. She tried to fix her vague looks on the 
face of him she saw standing over her. Her features re- 
laxed, and with a faint smile she asked : 

“ Is it you, papa ? ” 

“No, darling, it is not your papa,” said Talvanne, “but 
he was here a moment ago.” 

A troubled, suffering expression overspread Adrienne’s 
face, and in a voice indicative of pain and anguish, she 
answered : 

“Ah ! it is you, then. Thanks.” 

Her voice was so sad, on noticing her father’s absence, 
that Talvanne grew alarmed. It seemed to him that the 


New Revelations . 


184 

girl felt herself abandoned, disowned, condemned, and 
that the shadow of death already rested on her. He 
leaned over the bed and whispered : 

“ He will return, my dear, I promise you. I will tell 
him that you have asked for him, and he will come back.” 

She answered feebly : 

“ Yes, yes. You are so good.” 

Talvanne felt that if he remained any longer he would 
be unable to repress his feelings. He softly kissed Adri- 
enne’s forehead, and said : 

“Try and sleep, my dear.” 

Her eyes closed, and she made no answer. Talvanne 
then stepped lightly out of the room, and hurried down- 
stairs to Rameau’s cabinet. He was deeply moved, but 
not afraid, at the thought of the conversation he was about 
to have with his old friend. For a long time past he was 
steeled against his violent outbursts of temper, but was 
not proof against his suffering. And how grievously he 
suffered now ! That great mind must necessarily suffer 
more than an ordinary man. All the emotions were in- 
creased tenfold by such a sensitive brain. Talvanne, on 
arriving, had found the doctor wholly prostrated, and in- 
tent on suicide. Now, after their harsh discussion, would 
he find him violent with anger or overcome by prostration ? 

He descended the stairs, approached Rameau’s cabinet, 
and heard with uneasiness from the other side of the par- 
tition, a strong, loud voice, speaking without interruption, 
as if delivering a discourse. He felt alarmed. A cold 
perspiration moistened his forehead. Had his friend lost 
his senses ? He opened the door abruptly, and he saw the 
doctor, seated in his arm-chair, separated from his pupil 
by a large bureau, calm, but pale, and completely mas- 
ter of himself, dictating his comments on a report. He 
ceased his work when Talvanne entered, as if he felt a joy- 
ous pride in exhibiting his old-time energy before his 
friend who had seen him so feeble a short time before. 

Robert, gloomy and troubled, glanced alternately from 


New Revelations . 


185 


Rameau to Talvanne, seeking the solution of the enigma 
that they did not explain to him. He traced the last 
words on the paper before him, and putting down his pen, 
he remained for a moment moveless between the two men, 
neither of whom spoke a word. Never had he endured 
such a painful silence. Never did he experience such a 
sense of uneasiness. Instead of the bonhomie and famili- 
arity that habitually existed between the two friends, a 
sudden constraint and coolness were now apparent. To 
what should this sudden change be attributed ? Was 
Adrienne’s illness the cause or the result of it? It seemed 
impossible for him to leave the house, to return home, and 
to pass the whole night without any explanation of the sit- 
uation. 

At the same moment Rameau arose. Robert under- 
stood that he was in the way, and that his master was 
about to dismiss him for the day. He approached him 
timidly to bid him good-bye. Rameau, on taking leave of 
his pupil every day, extended his hand to him in a gracious 
and affectionate manner, and addressed a few pleasant 
words to him. Now, he simply bowed his head, and, in a 
listless voice, said : “Good-evening.” The clasp of Tal- 
vanne’s hand, on the contrary, was warmer and more nerv- 
ous than usual. Then Robert, saluting his master with 
the utmost respect, passed out. 

The two men, now left alone, sat down facing one an- 
other. Talvanne’s first glance was directed to the table, 
on which was placed an hour previously the little red- 
labelled bottle. It was no longer there. But had the 
doctor concealed it on his person, or had he put it back in 
the closet ? Had he abandoned his unworthy project, or 
had he simply postponed it, in order to accomplish it with 
more leisure and certainty ? Rameau seemed to read his 
friend’s thoughts. An ironical smile curled his lip, he 
knit his brows, and said : 

“ You are troubled about that little vial of prussic acid 
that was there a while ago. I am going to banish your 


1 86 


New Revelations . 


fears : it is in the laboratory. If you had entered half an 
hour later this evening you would have found me relieved 
of all my cares. You prevented me from carrying out my 
resolve, at the moment of my excitement. At present it is 
all over ; the impulse has subsided. I now view the sit- 
uation with coolness, and I feel that I have sufficient cour- 
age to face it. I had a moment of weakness. Let him 
who never experienced the same despise me.” 

Talvanne seized his hand, and pressed it with excess- 
ive sensibility. What an immense weight had been lifted 
from his heart ! Concerned for the father and the daugh- 
ter at the same time, as troubled for the one as the other, 
unable to separate them in his affections, he had suffered 
unspeakable anxiety during the entire evening. And now, 
at length, he was relieved on the one side. His face was 
so lit up with pleasure that Rameau was touched, and he 
said : 

“ Do not rejoice too much. It would have been better 
for you, perhaps, if I had gone. You have not had in 
me a very agreeable companion. What shall it be in the 
future ? ” 

“ Can you talk in that way, even lightly ? ” Talvanne re- 
plied, almost indignantly. “ Do you forget that since our 
youth, I have revolved around you like a modest satellite ? 
My light, and almost my life, I received from you. What 
would I have been without your friendship? A humble 
superintendent of a madhouse, a mere care-taker of luna- 
tics ! Whereas you, through your influence, have raised 
me above the level of mediocrity. You have taken from 
your own glory to create a reputation for me. You have 
fashioned an aureole for me from the rays of your own 
genius. Do you imagine I am not aware of all this ? Oh, 
my old friend, if I were not devoted to you I should be an 
odious ingrate ! But, in addition to my gratitude, you 
know full well that I have the most profound affection for 
you. I have no family, and you have taken its place. You 
and yours have been my true relatives, all the more loved 


New Revelations . 


187 


as I chose you myself. And you compassionate me for 
having to continue to live with you ? You are afraid that 
you are disagreeable and unpleasant, when I, with all my 
heart, thank you for having renounced the intention that 
would have separated us forever. You see I am a great 
egoist ! Perhaps, you would have been more tranquil and 
happy, had you taken refuge in death. But I did not 
think of that. I confess to you sincerely I thought only 
of myself. If you had left me, what would have become 
of me ? ” 

Rameau felt his heart, that he believed to be grown icy, 
dilate in his bosom, on hearing this burst of tenderness, a 
flush banished the pallor from his cheeks, and his eyes 
grew mild and sympathetic. He experienced a delightful 
sensation that proved to him that he was not yet dead to 
all human sentiment. He said to himself: “ Since I am at 
the mercy of my imagination to such a degree as to share 
thus keenly another’s emotion, I shall have to suffer cruelly 
still. What, then, must I do to extinguish within me all 
moral sensibility ?” 

Thus, at the moment when Talvanne congratulated him- 
self on having reconquered him, Rameau was devising 
some means of escape from him. But nature, disobedient 
to his will, held him in subjection, and he found that he 
was still under the influence of his friend much more than 
he had imagined. A single word sufficed to prove it to 
him, by again precipitating him into a more violent pas- 
sion than ever before. Talvanne, carried away by the 
fervor of his feelings, imprudently remarked: 

“ All that you feel since your horrible discovery, I thor- 
oughly comprehend. I have felt it myself, and for a long 
time, for what was hidden to you was known to me ! ” 

In a second, Rameau was again carried away by. the 
furious current of his exasperated jealousy. Talvanne’s 
remark had suddenly evoked the memory of Munzel and 
Conchita, and presented them to the mind of him whom 
they had betrayed, living, happy and smiling. The guilty 


New Revelations . 


1 88 

pair passed before his mind’s eye united, joyous, in a mys- 
terious penumbra, and Rameau’s imagination pursued 
them with his implacable and painful curiosity. He said 
to his friend: 

“ And so you knew all about the crime ? ” 

“ From the first day.” 

“ And you never informed me of it, never said a word 
about it, never did anything to save my honor ? ” 

He rose with a menacing air, and hands clenched, as if 
wishing to crush the guilty lovers, and gave vent to his 
impotent anger. The images escaped him, he could not 
lay hands on them. 

Talvanne coolly answered: 

‘‘Never informed you of it? 'Why should I? To poi- 
son your life twenty years earlier? To play in regard to 
you the role of a loyal and honest Iago ? And for what ? 
Was the evil reparable ? The pair were, besides, unhappy 
enough ! ” 

“ Unhappy ? ” 

“ Yes, for both of them were the victims of a deplorable 
fatality. They did not seek one another out ; they did 
everything in their power to flee from one another. Still, 
they loved. And, through the exercise of the virtue that 
remained to them, they endeavored to conceal their real 
sentiments from one another, under a feigned hostility 
Recollect their embarrassed attitude in each other’s pres- 
ence, their sarcastic language ” 

“ Hypocrisy ! They only wished to hoodwink me ! ” 
“No. They were sincere. For I have had the confession 
of both of them. You reproached me a moment ago for 
having done nothing to safeguard your honor. Well, I 
ran the risk of losing forever the esteem and affection of 
your wife, on account of the sternness and firmness of my 
interference. I threatened her with my intention to as- 
sault Munzel and force him to fight me, if he did not leave 
Paris on the spot. Now, when there is no longer any rea- 
son to shield either of them, I can tell you the plain, ab- 


New Revelations. 1 89 

solute truth. And I swear to you that they were both 
plunged in the deepest despair.” 

“ Yes, at the thought of being separated from one an- 
other ! ” 

“No ! For it was Conchita herself who ordered Mun- 
zel to depart. They were more afflicted by their guilt, 
more ashamed of their treason, than they were happy in 
their love. Remorse poisoned all their joy. And not an 
hour passed, since the commission of the wrong, that was 
exempt from the torture that took the place of your ven- 
geance. Finally, you can realize Munzel’s real sentiments 
by remembering that, when about to die, he refused to see 
his accomplice. Certainly, I never liked him, as you know, 
and I had a presentiment of the evil that would befall us 
through him ; but I cannot refuse to testify that he bit- 
terly repented the wrong he had committed. He thought 
only of you, he wished to see no one but you ; while your 
unhappy wife wept, outside the door, kneeling on the floor, 
proscribed by the dying man, refused admission to his 
bedside, as if he feared her presence would hinder him 
from seeking refuge in your friendship, as in an asylum of 
clemency and forgiveness. Do not regret your inability 
to be revenged on them ; appease your anger, calm your 
resentment, for they were punished more severely than 
you could have punished them ; and you could not, if they 
were now living before you, be more implacable toward 
them than they themselves were to one another ! ” 

Rameau had listened to his friend, his head resting on 
his hand, without once interrupting him, as if insensible to 
all that he heard. After a few moments’ silence, he began : 

“Ah ! I could have ,the generosity to forget them. But 
have they permitted me to do so ? Their crime has not 
been effaced by their death ; it has survived them. Its 
living trace is in my house, beside me, under my eyes. 
That is my keenest torture, my incurable wound. That 
child that I adored, in whom my life was bound up, who 
was my comfort and my joy, I must now turn away from 


New Revelations . 


190 

with horror. Oh ! I cannot express to you my feelings 
since this terrible revelation. I suffer to the verge of mad- 
ness. All my thoughts clash furiously within my brain. 
At times I think that I am a monster to repel that inno- 
cent creature. I try to prove to myself that it is impossi- 
ble that I have changed in such a brief space of time. I 
loved her this morning, and I hate her this evening. It is 
the acme of improbability, of insanity, and yet it is so. It 
required but a second to embitter that tenderness, to ruin 
that worship. The idol is overthrown, and how can it be 
restored ? I have appealed to my philosophy ; I have in- 
voked the rights of humanity. All the principles, in the 
name of which I have hitherto acted, have proved to be 
futile and vain. I no longer reason or argue. Mind is 
vanquished within me ; it is the animal that rules, that 
chafes, that complains, because its offspring that it so 
loved no longer belongs to it.” 

“To that I have already replied. What do you know 
about it ? ” answered Talvanne. “ How can you, a learned 
physician, a skilful physiologist, advance and defend such 
a fact ? You are very bold ! A woman has a lover ; does 
it necessarily follow that the child that is born of her be- 
longs to him ? That is an argument only fit for the* drama 
or fiction. A nice invention to produce a situation. But 
the reality is less simple. This woman had a husband 
also. Oh ! I know I shock your feelings, but let me con- 
tinue. It is necessary to have the imagination of an in- 
ventor, or the blindness of jealousy to affirm that the child 
does not belong to the husband. Who knows anything 
about it? And you, — who authorizes you to deny that 
your daughter is your own ? I will not supply you with 
sentimental reasons. I will not say to you, She is your 
daughter, and there is not a sensation of her mind or an 
emotion of her heart but comes from you. No, I will con- 
tent myself with invoking reason alone ; I will take nature 
as a witness, and I will cry out to you with all the strength 
of my conviction. You are deceiving yourself, and your 


New Revelations. 


191 

error may prove fatal to that child, to yourself, to Robert, 
to me — in a word, to all of us who love her ! ” 

“And I will answer,” said Rameau with intense earnest- 
ness, “ that my conviction is as strong as yours, and that 
nothing can change it. No ! That child is not mine, and 
it is only necessary to look at her to be sure of it. Her 
whole person is a witness of wrong. She is the material 
and moral emanation of crime. She has all the grace, the 
elegance, the charm of crime. The most convincing wit- 
ness against her is herself. She the daughter of an old 
man and a young woman — she that is like the spring-time 
in flowers ? Even though the circumstances, the dates did 
not agree so clearly to prove the contrary, it would be im- 
possible for me to believe that I am her father. Cease, 
then, treating me as an old fool who only wishes to be con- 
vinced ; you are talking to a man who has courage enough 
to look the truth in the face.” 

This time Talvanne understood that it was useless to 
add another word. Rameau did not complain further ; he 
had regained his self-possession, and his thoughts were as 
lucid as his words were clear. He continued : 

“ I have in my house a stranger on whom the law confers 
all the rights of a legitimate child. It is the greatest in- 
famy of illicit love to create the difficulty that I now have 
to solve. How am I to do it ? That is something I do not 
know as yet, but I am going to reflect on it.” 

“ Do not have recourse to that extremity,” begged Tal- 
vanne. “ Spare that innocent creature, if not for her sake, 
at least for mine. You know how tenderly I love her. 
And my sentiments toward her have in nowise changed. 
If you do not wish to see her any more, if her presence 
near you is insupportable, do not forget that I am ready 
to devote myself to her happiness. I am her godfather, 
and I reside almost in the country. That will afford a 
pretext in the eyes of the world for Adrienne, if your prej- 
udices impose on her a change of residence. You could 
not induce me to divulge the real cause. It is easy for us 


192 


New Revelations. 


to say that she is ill, weakly, and that she needs a change 
of air. She can thus wait until the date for her marriage 
arrives, unless ” 

He paused, and his face assumed an anxious expression. 

“ Unless?” questioned Rameau. 

“ Unless,” Talvanne continued, in a trembling voice, 
“ unless we have to take her to the cemetery. The events 
of to-day have seriously shaken her health. I fear compli- 
cations. A little tenderness and kindness would be the 
best remedies for her malady, and it is precisely these that 
you seem determined to withhold from her.” 

He looked at his friend and, with a warmth and an emo- 
tion which, previous to this misfortune, the latter could not 
have resisted, resumed : 

“ Come, Rameau ! I have always known you to be a 
good and brave man, with a large and generous heart, a 
powerful and profound mind. Can you not control your 
human weakness ? Can you not with one sweep of the 
wing soar upward far above the troubles that fret you, and 
in a higher, purer element forget all that is not the eternal 
and sovereign equity? At this moment you fall, you are 
not worthy of yourself, and it is from this error on your 
part that your anger and pain spring. Raise up your head, 
and resume your place at the head of other men. Be su- 
perior in kindness, in goodness, as you are in genius. 
Adrienne a stranger? Well, then, if she is, instead of re- 
pudiating her, adopt her.” 

Rameau shook his head sadly, and replied : 

“ Formerly, I would have spoken as you do; I would 
have given myself up to beautiful extra-philanthropical 
theories. To-day all is changed. I am no longer in face 
of an idea, that one may discuss or develop : I run against 
a fact, and one does not discuss a fact : he submits to it. 
Perhaps, in my place, you would do what you now advise 
me to do. That only proves that you are better than I 
am. I have not the strength to do it, and I firmly believe 
I never shall, unless by a miracle ! ” 


New Revelations. 


193 

“ Well,” said Talvanne, “if a miracle is necessary, God 
will perform it ! ” 

“ God ! ” repeated Rameau. “ The final argument with 
all of you when you have nothing else to fall back on ! ” 

He added in a tone of weariness : 

“Ah ! let your God manifest Himself then ! I shall be 
very thankful to Him for it. I have sore need of a star to 
guide me through the darkness in which I am groping.” 

“That guide you have already, Rameau,” replied Tal- 
vanne, “ but you do not wish at this moment to follow it. 
It is your conscience.” 

He did not give his friend time to answer, desiring to 
leave him under the influence of his last words. He shook 
his hand warmly, said “To-morrow,” received the “Yes,” 
in reply, as an engagement, and left the room. 

In the dark ante-chamber a shadow glided from the 
wall and came toward him. It was Robert. 

“ What ! you have waited all this time for me ? ” he said 
to the young man. 

“ I went back to Adrienne, and made her take the medi- 
cine you prescribed. The fever has subsided somewhat, 
but her head still troubles her as before.” 

“ Let us await the effect of the night.” 

He took Robert by the arm, and leaning on him, said : 

“Why did you lie in wait for me in this way?” 

The latter, embarrassed, did not reply. 

‘ Come ! ” resumed Talvanne. “Have the courage of 
your curiosity.” 

“Well, then,” replied the young man, in a faltering 
voice, “ I desire to learn from you what has taken place to- 
day. I wish to know what troubles the doctor so seriously, 
and what has caused Adrienne’s illness.” 

They were now outside the door, and Talvanne’s coupe 
was awaiting them before the gate. 

“We will walk a little,” said Talvanne to the coachman. 

And while the carriage followed them they proceeded 
on through the Place des Invalides. Robert studied Tal- 


194 


New Revelations . 


vanne’s face closely. The latter stopped abruptly, looked 
his companion fixedly in the face, and said : 

“ If Adrienne was not Rameau’s daughter, what would 
you say ? ” 

Those who love have a sort of divination. One could 
have believed that Robert had a presentiment of what 
Talvanne was prepared to ask him. He replied quickly, 
as if his heart had the answer ready : 

“ What matters it to me whether she is the daughter of 
Peter or Paul, an orphan or an heiress ? So long as she is 
herself, I am satisfied. I love her ! ” 

Talvanne’s face beamed with joy. He shook the young 
man’s hand with a heartiness all his own, and exclaimed : 

“ Well ! well ! It takes lovers to express their thoughts 
frankly. You are a worthy young man, whom I esteemed 
highly yesterday, but whom I esteem much more highly 
to-day. Now, listen to me, and I will explain the mystery 
to you.” 

The night was soft, a light breeze rustled the leaves of 
the trees, and thousands of stars, cold and luminous, 
scintillated in the heavens. Talvanne cast a pensive glance 
heavenward, and murmured : 

“ And Rameau wishes for a star. It is not the star that 
is lacking, alas ! but the eyes to see it ! ” 

He hastened his step, reached the quay, the carriage 
meantime following, and finally began the recital of the 
story that he had promised to Robert. 


The Triumph of Love . 


195 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 

Three physicians had met in Rameau’s cabinet in con- 
sultation. They were, all three, among the most celebra- 
ted practitioners of Europe. Talvanne, leaning against 
the chimney-piece, a few paces from his friend’s arm-chair, 
was listening to the conclusions of Professor Lemarchand, 
a specialist in chest diseases, and the discoverer of the 
bacillus in phthisical diseases. The professor, who was 
standing, was speaking in a slow, deliberate voice, with 
subdued gestures, addressing himself alternately to his 
confreres, for corroboration, and to the father, to implore 
his indulgence. 

“ My dear friend, we do not know what to think. The 
malady puzzles us. The symptoms are extremely diverse. 
Yesterday there was distinct hematocele, accompanied by 
peritonitis. To-day, there is no longer a trace of inflamma- 
tion in the abdomen, and the fever augments, with troubles 
of sight and hearing. Meantime, cerebral symptoms are 
appearing, and Talvanne persists in fearing meningitis." 

The three physicians looked at one another with anxiety. 
They pondered every means of escaping from the dark- 
ness in which they were struggling ; they inwardly sighed, 
but remained silent. Their faces wore gloomy and disap- 
pointed looks. They felt themselves powerless, and in 
presence of their colleague and friend, whose daughter, 
committed to their care, suffered from a malady that they 
could not define, and which grew worse from hour to hour, 
they experienced a feeling of humiliation. To let a com- 
mon patient die would be endurable. But the only child 
of Professor Rameau ! That would be a confession of in- 
capacity that would humiliate the entire Faculty. 

“The malady puzzles you," broke in Talvanne, “because 
its seat is in the mind. You have to combat an affection 
produced by mental commotion, by a violent shock. Do 


The Triumph of Love . 


196 

not hope to dissipate it by ordinary therapeutic means. 
No cupping such as our confrere proposed a while ago. 
The loss of blood would dangerously weaken the patient. 
No cold baths ; there is not a trace of typhoid fever. An- 
odynes, rest ; in a word, the least medicine possible.” 

They all looked at one another, and keenly felt the irony 
of Talvanne’s remarks. But Rameau, buried in his arm- 
chair, did not move a muscle. They arose, and shaking 
his hand, said : 

“ Let us await the development of the disease. We shall 
return in the morning.” 

And, like so many shadows, they glided out of the room, 
leaving Rameau and Talvanne together. 

“ And that is the dlite of modern medical science ! ” re- 
marked Talvanne, shrugging his shoulders. “ Poor human- 
ity, which is subject to such pretentious nincompoops ! 
Their patients recover because they desire to recover. 
That reminds me of what poor Dr. Bouvey once told me, 
when I was one of his pupils at Saint-Louis : 1 In my de- 
partment I have two wards filled with patients. Those in 
the first I treat according to the practice and teaching of 
the college. To those in the second I give simply sugared 
water. As many of the latter recover as the former.’ He 
was frank, he did not drug his patients.” 

He walked over from the window to where his friend was 
sitting, planted himself before him, and, changing his 
tone, said : 

7 ♦ 

“ I know well our patient’s needs, and what will cure her 
better than all their remedies.” , 

He paused, and, looking straight in Rameau's face, con- 
tinued : 

“ It is your presence.” 

And, as the doctor remained motionless and silent, he 
continued, in a supplicating tone : 

“You do not wish to come up-stairs with me to see 
her?” 

The doctor shook his head. Talvanne’s face darkened 


The Triumph of Love . 197 

and his look grew introspective ; he remained absorbed for 
several minutes, and then began : 

“ You should do it, if it were only as a matter of profes- 
sional pride. You see plainly that all these great physi- 
cians, your rivals, so jealous of you, are not able to formu- 
late a certain diagnosis. They are groping in the dark. If 
it had been anybody other than Adrienne, and if I had not 
opposed it in the present case, they would already have at- 
tempted methods of treatment that would have tortured 
the child beyond endurance. If you will but take the case 
in hand, you will not only discover what they cannot see, 
but also apply the true remedy and method of treatment. 
What a lesson to give them, and in your own house ! Ra- 
meau, I beg you to come.” 

The doctor hung his head on his breast to avoid Tal- 
vanne’s look, and made no reply. Talvanne made a gest- 
ure of disappointment. 

“ Mon JDieu/”h.& exclaimed, “I use every means with 
you, even artifice, and still you remain immovable. What 
then can I say that may move you to pity ? You esteem 
and love me, however, as also Robert, who is almost 
beside himself, and who will die of grief if we do not 
save Adrienne. I assure you that nobody but you can 
save her. All the rest of us are imbeciles. Is it possible 
that we have here the only physician living who can suc- 
ceed in saving her so dear to us, and that he refuses to us 
what he has so often accorded to strangers for money ? But 
is it really hatred that devours your heart ? You told me so, 
but I did not wish to believe it. ‘Angry phrases, words ut- 
tered in the heat of the moment, I said to myself, he will 
yield by and by.' And yet you remain hard and cold as a 
stone ! Are you not, then, of our species ? Is there nothing 
human about you ? You alarm me, though I have passed all 
my life near you, and have known your greatness and your 
goodness. Come, my dear and good old friend, if you will 
but accompany me to her room ; if you will see her again, 
were it only for a second, you will take pity on her, I as- 


The Triumph of Love. 


198 

sure you. Our colleagues were touched to the heart, and 
they do not know her at all ! They do not know how 
sweet, how gentle, how tender she is ! A child that has 
always been our joy, whose every breath we listened to 
when she was young, so careful were we of her ! and you 
are going to let her die now ? For, I tell you she will die, 
and on your account ! Do you understand ? She asks, she 
calls for no one but you ! When she wakes up from her 
horrible sleep, and regains her reason, she looks for you ; 
and it is the chagrin and pain of not seeing you near her 
that throws her back into delirium. You are killing her 1 
If you wish to get rid of her, you have taken the best 
means to accomplish your purpose ! She will not long 
resist your harshness. In a few days at most it will be 
finished ! Rameau, you understand me well — do you not ? 
Finished ! We will nail her in her coffin, and consign her 
to the earth. Then you and I will be alone. But, ah, not 
together ! For, I tell you now, I will shun you, like a mon- 
ster. You will only inspire me with horror. I certainly 
will not live with a murderer. And you will be a mur- 
derer ! ” 

He sank into his chair, overcome, pale, almost breathless, 
beside Rameau. The doctor really appeared to have lost 
all human feelings and traits, as his friend had reproach- 
fully remarked a moment before. His forehead, yellow as 
ivory, shone bright in the light of the lamp ; his white 
beard covered his breast like a silver cloth, and his eyelids, 
swollen from insomnia, were lowered, as if he was sleeping. 
His hands alone, resting on the arms of his chair, twitched 
nervously, indicating a violent mental emotion. 

“Rameau, do you hear me ?” resumed Talvanne. “An- 
swer me, at least.” 

“ I have left you master of my own house,” replied the 
doctor, without raising his eyes, or without his face losing 
anything of its coldness and rigidity. “Do what you 
please ; call in whom you please. Decide, command. But 
do not ask anything more of me. You compelled me to 


The Triumph of Love. igg 

live, and I told you that you were wrong. You see now 
you almost regret it.” 

Talvanne slapped his hands together, and, with an irri- 
tation he did not try to restrain, said : 

“ I no longer recognize you ! In thought or language, 
you are yourself no more. Can a man change thus in so 
short a time ? I must say that you are playing a horrible 
role. I ask you, for the last time, to yield to my prayer. 
Will you do me the favor of showing a spark of pity for 
that poor child ? ” 

Rameau replied : 

“ Do not require of me what I have not the strength to 
do.” 

Talvanne arose before his friend, pale, and, with an ac- 
cent that betrayed his heartfelt sorrow and diappointment, 
exclaimed : 

“ You are a bad man ! Yes, a bad man ! You will never 
see me enter your house again. Good-bye ! ” 

And he went out without even looking behind him. Ra- 
meau did not move a muscle or speak a word to retain the 
friend of his former years. But when the door was closed 
he uttered a long-drawn sigh. 

Talvanne, exasperated, rushed up the stairs in a few 
bounds. He seemed to have regained the agility of youth. 
One would think that he was running with the announce- 
ment of happy news. On reaching the door of Adrienne’s 
room he stopped. His nervous excitement suddenly sub- 
sided, and the horror of the situation appeared to him. 
Rameau refused to do personally anything whatever foi 
her whom he had banished from his heart in an instant, 
and forever. And he, Talvanne, had undertaken to bring 
him back to the bedside of the patient. As he had said 
to his friend, the girl thought only of her father, looked 
only for her father, asked only for her father. She was 
dying from the thought of having been thrust away by 
him. The wound whose ravages the physicians attested 
without being able to assign its cause had been made by 


200 


The Triumph of Love . 

the cruel hand of Rameau, and the wound was in the 
heart. The father only could bind that wound and heal 
it. And he did not wish to do so. 

Then it was all over, and the poor little girl, the inno- 
cent victim of another’s wrong, was destined to die, in the 
agony of an ever-increasing delirium, and the tortures of a 
brain-burning fever. What was Talvanne to answer, when 
the patient would ask him the same question, that she did 
not fail to repeat from the first hour: “Why does papa not 
come ? ” He should have recourse to falsehood again, as 
he had during the past two days. 

He almost wished that the girl would be lost in that 
torpid sleep, haunted by frightful nightmares, that made 
her supplicate and cry out, as if she were confronted by 
threatening figures, as if she were surrounded by scenes of 
violence. The past scene was continually before her mind 
—a chamber covered with debris, and Rameau violent, ter- 
rible, furious — and wrung from her the anguished cry, ever 
the same: 

“ Papa ! oh, papa, pardon me. If you are troubled, it is 
not my fault. Papa, do not harm me ! ” 

And she prayed so sweetly, so piteously, that Talvanne, 
listening to her, could not restrain his feelings, while 
Robert chafed with anger and pain, in his exasperating 
impotence. 

To take on themselves the sufferings of this adorable 
creature, to sacrifice themselves for her, to die if neces- 
sary that she might live, this both of them would, if pos- 
sible, have done without an instant’s hesitation. And they 
were powerless. While a man who, by a single sign, a 
word, could save that martyred innocent, refused with 
fierce obstinacy to make that sign, to speak that word, im- 
movable, icy, petrified, in an exaggerated folly that had 
dried up his heart and brain. 

And there was nothing that could be done with him that 
Talvanne had not already tried. No reasoning, no en- 
treaty, no violence would avail. One might take a pistol, 


201 


The Triumph of Love . 

and, placing it to his head, say: “Save her or I will slay 
you ! ” and he would reply, “ My blessing on you. Kilt 
me ; it is all that I desire ! ” Nothing, nothing remained. 
The entire arsenal of human means had been exhausted. 
It only remained to have recourse to Providence, and rely 
on nature. 

Almost beside himself, ready for anything, so intense 
was his suffering, Talvanne nevertheless did not despair. 
He did not know whence succor would come, but he ex- 
pected it. The miracle of which he spoke to Rameau 
would occur. A lightning-stroke of feeling would reopen 
in that heart the fountain of goodness now dried up. It 
was impossible that something should not happen. Adri- 
enne was not yet dead. 

But she was dying, and he vividly recalled the predic- 
tion, already partly realized, that Conchita made beside 
Munzel’s death-bed: 

“ All who have come near the atheist have been stricken. 
He has corrupted all around him with his deadly poison ! ” 

All had succumbed, as she had said, and now it was 
Adrienne's turn. He imagined he saw the young wife 
once more, in her deep-mourning robe, with arm raised, 
and with the fire of a prophetess in her eyes. But he 
shook his head, and banished these thoughts. He found 
himself, to his surprise, in the corridor, at the head of the 
stairs, in front of the salon, in almost complete darkness. 
He had been there, perhaps, for half an hour. He entered 
Adrienne’s chamber on tip-toe. On seeing him, Robert, 
who was seated by the mantel, rose and cast a questioning 
glance at Talvanne. 

“ It is impossible to move him,” replied the latter. 

“ What if I should go?” asked the young man. 

“ It would, I think, be useless. Let us reserve the final 
effort for the last extremity. After what I compelled him 
to listen to, what could you say that would have any effect 
on him ? No ! The blow that has fallen on him has 
broken all the ties that bound him to us. We are no longer 


202 


The Triumph of Love . 

dealing with a man. He is no longer touched by our 
misery. He no longer hears or understands our human 
arguments. I am prostrated. I never dreamed that my 
old age was reserved for such a cruel trial. But how is 
Adrienne ? ” 

“She complains of violent pains in the head, and the 
light affects her eyes. She cannot bear it.” 

“ Does she still have hallucinations ?” 

“Yes, during sleep. On awaking, always the same 
thought.” 

“ Her father ? ” 

“ Yes. See, it is eight o’clock. You have passed these 
two nights with her, and you ought to go home and rest. 

I will sit with Rosalie and attend to her.” 

“Very well ; but I shall remain until midnight.” 

He approached the bed. Adrienne waz breathing pain- 
fully, and murmuring vague and dreamy words. Talvanne 
bent over her, and his eyes growing accustomed to the 
light, gradually distinguished the features of the girl, rav- 
aged by suffering and pain. Not a trace of that rosy 
freshness, which lent such beauty to her face, now re- 
mained. A marble paleness overspread her cheeks, and 
her jaws seemed pinched and emaciated. Her temples 
were moist with perspiration. She was restless and feverish. 

Talvanne shook his head, uttered a sigh, and returning 
sat down beside Robert. They remained, for a time, silent, 
listening to the monotonous tick-tack of the clock. About 
half-past eight o’clock the door softly opened, and Rosalie 
appeared. She stepped over to the two men, and whis- 
pered to them to go to dinner in the salon. 

“ It is the doctor’s dinner,” she said, “ but he would not 
touch it.” 

And, as Talvanne and Robert did not move, she added: 

“ You must renew your strength ; you have need of it.” 

They rose, and, preceded by Rosalie, passed into the 
salon, where, on a small round-table, the dinner was await- 
ing them. 


203 


The Triumph of Love . 

They sat facing one another, sad and troubled, in that 
house where they had so often dined in gaiety and happi- 
ness. 

Rameau had remained in his cabinet, never moving from 
his chair since Talvanne’s departure. He no longer 
seemed alive. Sunk back in his huge chair, he was wrap- 
ped in profound reflection. Rosalie came several times to 
ask him to eat. She even brought in a little table, and 
placed it within reach of his hand. He only looked at her 
with an impatient frown, and said, “ Take that away/’ and 
relapsed into his stormy meditation. Dressed in his long, 
black gown, in the midst of his books, pensive and bowed, 
he resembled old Faust seeking to penetrate the mysteri- 
ous problems of human existence. 

For two days and nights he had not closed his eyes in 
sleep and, his mind still lucid and active, it seemed to him 
he would never need sleep more. He had gladly calcu- 
lated that the remainder of his life would be consumed all 
the quicker by this enervation, and, with eager application, 
he again turned his mind to the contemplation of his mis- 
fortune. Gradually, his thoughts soared above the earth, 
until he had lost the sentiment of the real. 

He felt himself borne into immense space, as if he were a 
disembodied and aerial being. Everything around him dis- 
appeared, and he ascended continually, lifted on powerful 
wings. He was thus elevated into the celestial solitudes, 
where the poets have placed the souls of the dead, and, 
like Francesca and Paolo, entwined in an eternal and dead- 
ly embrace, he saw Munzel and Conchita, plaintive and 
desolate, attached to one another by the remorse of their 
crime. He could not turn his eyes away from them, and a 
terrible grief oppressed him. He wished to rejoin them, 
but the distance between them and him ever remained the 
same. He chafed to pursue them, but they fled aghast 
into the solitary immensity, leaving a long, black, funereal 
veil trailing behind them. But there was no fatigue and 
no truce. It seemed to him that he would pursue them 


204 


The Triumph of Love . 


forever, with the vengeful desire to overtake them, judge 
them, and punish them. 

Hours went by, and he still remained a prey to his re- 
doubtable folly. He forgot life, the world, his friends, and, 
lost in his dream, he only existed in his thoughts. Rosalie 
entered his room, and he did not hear her. She spoke to 
him, beseeching him to retire to sleep, not to remain seated 
continually in the same spot, but he made her no answer. 
The house gradually grew silent and dark as a tomb. 
Talvanne was gone, the night glided away, and, in the 
light of the lamps that were beginning to grow dim, Ra- 
meau dreamed on, his eyes fixed on space, his brow bur- 
dened with thought. The clock struck two. A cold feel- 
ing, the first vital impression that the gloomy dreamer had 
experienced for eight-and-forty hours, came over him. He 
cast an anxious glance about him, saw the fire extin- 
guished, the room deserted, and darkness all around. The 
memory of his present troubles came back to him. He 
saw again the white chamber in which Adrienne lay suffer- 
ing, dying, and a piercing pain went through his heart like 
an arrow. He thought that he was not alone in his suffer- 
ing, and that he had plunged into a state of voluntary an- 
nihilation, which was only the effect of a monstrous ego- 
ism. But a wave of anger again passed through his mind. 
He revolted against the pity that had dared to appeal to 
his heart. He would not admit that any suffering was 
equal to his own. What cared he about others ? What 
bond did human weakness now counsel him to renew ? 
Those of the ignominy of which he was the victim ? No ! 
No ! He would not be such a coward ! 

He rose and walked the room with a slow and heavy 
step. All was quiet. He was isolated, alone, materially 
as well as morally. The void that he had spread around 
him, by his violence and his harshness, remained complete. 
He felt himself as much abandoned as he had abandoned 
others. Had not Talvanne himself said that he would re- 
turn no more ? Talvanne! Was it possible? And what 


The Triumph of Love. 


205 


would Rameau’s last hour be without his faithful friend to 
close his eyes in death ? Alone, like a voluntary pariah, — 
was not that what he wished ? 

He walked slowly to the door of his cabinet and opened 
it. He went on without any light ; all the corners of the 
house were familiar to him. His feet found the way with- 
out any aid from his eyes. He passed through the corridor 
and reached the stairway that led to Adrienne’s apartment. 
The silence was unbroken. Not a step, no going in or out 
was heard on the upper floor, revealing attendance upon 
the patient. Was she also abandoned ? A tremor passed 
through Rameau’s veins as he thought, “ Is it all over ? Is 
she dead ?” 

He began to climb the stairs in the darkness. He as- 
cended, drawn by a curiosity that he could not subdue. 
Before whom was he going to present himself ? What was 
he going to see ? People crushed with sorrow and trouble ? 
A body, frail and pallid, stretched on a bed surrounded by 
funerea* lights ? And sighs and prayers and tears ? He 
continued to ascend. He reached the salon, which was 
open ; he entered, and through the half-open door he saw 
a thin ray of light, and he heard a voice that sounded like 
a subdued chant. He advanced a step, leaned his head 
over to the door, and looked in. 

Robert was seated near the bed, almost under the cur- 
tains, in the feeble and flickering light of a night-lamp. It 
was he who was speaking, and she whom he was address- 
ing did not hear him. She was still plunged in that same 
terrible delirium, which ceased, at short intervals, only to 
leave her more prostrate than before, with her life slowly 
but surely ebbing away. And to arouse her from that 
sleep that seemed to be the herald of death, her fiance 
talked to her, entreated her, with an ardent and disconso- 
late tenderness. In the darkness, amid the unbroken 
silence, it was a spectacle at once touching and sinister to 
see Robert thus striving to awaken the half-lifeless body 
before him through the magic words of love. Rameau 


20 6 The Triumph of Love . 

listened with eager ear. Certain of Deing alone, as Tal- 
vanne was gone, Rosalie sleeping, and the father obsti- 
nately shut up in his hateful abstention, Robert, bent over 
the inert hand of Adrienne, gave free vent to his feelings. 

“ Is it possible/’ he murmured, “ that we must lose you — 
you so sweet, so good, so tender ? What will our life be 
when you will be no longer here? What regrets, what 
despair for those who will have left you to perish ! They 
will then realize the void made by your absence ; they will 
wish to recall you to life, to have you back again, but you 
will no longer hear them. It will be too late ! However, 
it only requires a glimmer of reason to penetrate his inex- 
plicable madness in order to save you. If he whom you 
call unceasingly, when you are not insensible, as you are 
at this moment, should consent to come, should forget the 
wrongs for which you are not responsible, to think only of 
your beauty and goodness, you would live, fof you suffer 
only through his anger, and you will die only through his 
abandonment. And x am condemned to witness this injus- 
tice, to bear this iniquity, and I can do nothing for you. 
You love me, but the love you bear him who is giving you 
over to death is stronger still ! Darling, your hand is burn- 
ing with a fever that I cannot allay. Do you hear me ? 
Awaken ; do not remain there continually, murmuring 
words that we can all divine. Your father will come. 
Yes, I will beseech him on my knees. Your godfather did 
not know how to talk to him. He was violent and harsh. 
That was not the way to take the doctor. He would not 
have resisted a tender appeal. And I will melt his heart, 
else there is no heart in his breast. Oh ! dearest Adrienne, 
what would I not attempt to procure you relief ? It is 
such a torture for me to see you suffer, without the power 
of helping you. I would sacrifice my life to save you. 
To hate you ? For an act of folly that occurred years ago ! 
If to-morrow, cured, strong, happy, you should abandon 
me in favor of another, I would not even think of doing 
you harm. I would die of pain and despair, that would be 


The Triumph of Love . 207 

all, in wishing you happiness and joy. To hate you ? Can 
such a thing be possible ? A temporary madness. Do not 
leave us ; be patient, wait ; he will return and you will 
suffer no more, and we shall see only gaiety in your eyes, 
and a smile on your lips.” 

He pressed the girl’s hand in his as if he wished to as- 
sume her suffering and give her his health and strength. 
He felt that hand tremble in his own ; he arose and saw 
Adrienne open her eyes. She turned toward him, with an 
effort, and, recognizing her friend, said : 

“ It is you, Robert ! My godfather is no longer here ! ” 

She paused a moment, and then feebly continued : 

“And where is papa? I would like to see him.” 

“ He was here a while ago, my darling, but you were 
sleeping,” replied Robert. 

She smiled sadly, and said : 

“Yes, he always comes when I am asleep. You tell me 
so. But I never find him here when I awake.” 

She was silent for a few seconds, and then in a piteous 
voice said : 

“And that hurts me so much ! so much ! ” 

Her eyes grew clouded, her head fell back on the pillow, 
she murmured a few indistinct words, and relapsed into 
delirium. Robert bent over her, still holding her hand, 
and looking the picture of despair. The doctor, more 
bowed, gloomy, and unhappy in mind than ever, almost 
frightened, and flying from this picture of anguish and 
pain into the darkness like a criminal, descended the stairs 
again with the same noiseless step and re-entered his room. 
He walked up and down the apartment, deeply agitated. 
His mind had taken another turn. It no longer evoked 
the images of Conchita and Munzel. The guilty couple 
had vanished, and the little suffering girl, who was mate- 
rially so near him and morally so far from him, now occu- 
pied his thoughts. He saw the white chamber, and, be- 
neath the curtains that had so often sheltered the peaceful 
and smiling sleep of the child, he heard the fitful breathing 


208 


The Triumph of Love . 


of a painful and troubled sleep. It was the same sweet 
creature, so tenderly loved, whose kisses used to touch his 
heart, who was now suffering, and he did not attempt to 
cure her. 

He tried to debate with himself, saying, “ What is that 
girl to me ? I do not know her. If it were not for the ex- 
planations I should have to make, from which I shrink, I 
would have turned her out of my house. I do not love her. 
I cannot love her. It would be only a deception added to 
so many others. To love the offspring of that miserable 
wretch and her paramour? To accept and approve shame ? 
Ah ! I should have fallen into imbecility to do that. Come, 
no weakness ! I have been dishonored by others, but I 
shall never dishonor myself ! ” 

A voice arose within him for the first time, which an- 
swered, “Who will know it? Talvanne? But he has im- 
plored you to be merciful. Robert ? He will bless you all 
his life.” But he immediately rebelled against this cow- 
ardly counsellor ; he protested that he would not follow 
its treacherous and alluring promptings. He. wished to 
steel himself more completely with indifference, but he did 
not succeed in doing so. In vain he tried to turn his 
thoughts to other things, to direct his imagination to dif- 
ferent subjects ; he was always brought back to that lam- 
entable picture of the suffering girl, burning with feverish 
nightmares in that bed that was intended for happy 
dreams. 

The scene grew more vivid in his mind. He experienced 
an intense desire to know what was taking place. He was 
about to ring to ask for news. Yet his heart was not 
moved by a return of sympathy ; he did not feel himself 
drawn toward the girl. It seemed to him that, once cured, 
he would take no further interest in her. But she was suf- 
fering and he said to himself, “ I think of her only because 
she suffers.” He experienced a relief when he found this 
explanation of his trouble. As the morning was breaking, 
he threw open the window and sat down in his arm-chair, 


The Triumph of Love . 


209 


The pure air did him good. After a while he went to his 
desk, took a book, and read tranquilly until breakfast-time. 

Rosalie, to her great astonishment, found him as calm as 
if nothing unusual had happened. She had counted on a 
prostration of his nervous system consequent on his past 
excitement to bring about a change in his mind. And sud- 
denly, at the moment when she believed him prostrated 
and at the mercy of his surroundings, he rose up as strong 
and powerful as ever. She asked herself what pact he had 
made with the invisible beings to possess these mysterious 
resources. She brought on a tray his usual meal — cold 
meat and fruits. He ate a few mouthfuls and drank a 
glass of water. He had hardly finished when Rosalie 
turned to leave. As she reached the door he could no 
longer contain the question that was burning his lips. 

“ Is Dr. Talvanne there ?” he asked. 

She answered : 

“ Yes, sir ; he is up-stairs with Robert.” 

She did not mention the name of Adrienne ; she did not 
say, “ With your daughter.” “ Up-stairs ” — that was all. 
Was not that what he wished to know ? ‘She was tempted 
to add, “ And things are serious.” But she restrained her- 
self. Rameau’s face was contracted, and from pale turned 
livid. He made a gesture of impatience, and Rosalie left 
the room. 

So Talvanne had executed his threat ; he did not return 
to his friend any more. He was with his godchild up- 
stairs ; but he did not stop on the first floor to shake the 
hand of his old friend and comrade. It was the first time 
he had done so in forty years. Rameau was deeply 
grieved. He had listened to all Talvanne had said to 
him, but he did not believe in his threat to sever his friend- 
ship with him. 

He said to himself, “At present I am, indeed, alone. It 
is a complete and positive void.” 

Everything around him was solitary and desolate. A 

painful impression took possession of his mind, He 


210 


The Triumph of Love. 


seemed to be taken with vertigo, and with a troubled 
thought he asked himself if the sentiment he felt did 
not spring from fear. An unknown oppression weighed 
upon his heart He was dissatisfied with others and with 
himself. A heavy burden bore him down, and he had a 
suspicion that it was remorse. He grew indignant at the 
thought. Remorse for what? What had he done ? Was 
he, then, guilty? He smiled bitterly. Poor humanity, 
tossed about forever on the ocean of dreams, and terrified 
by the reality ! Weakness, weakness, and nothing but 
weakness ! A change in his life, a modification of his 
habits, and he, the strong-minded, lost the balance of his 
faculties. Talvanne upbraided him, and that momentary 
hostility caused a depression of spirits, the inquietude of 
a child who fears spectres. All this sadness, all this mel- 
ancholy, were only phantoms of the imagination. It would 
be only necessary to look at them closely in order to dissi- 
pate and annihilate them. 

He endeavored during the long hours of that day to 
morally fortify himself. He set about it with great will 
and courage. He succeeded after violent efforts. He was 
able to pass his examination of conscience, and to judge 
himself as innocent toward others as they had been guilty 
toward him. He counted on the natural justice of Tal- 
vanne, and hoped that his friend would return to him. 
He regained all his firmness, and concluded that he had 
acted as he should have acted. He received his confreres 
who arrived for the daily consultation, and did not appear 
to remark that the alienist had not accompanied them. He 
talked medicine, discussed the treatment proposed, ac- 
cepted the encouragement that they gave him, and played 
with grim complaisance his role of father. But, toward 
six o’clock, when night was falling and darkness taking 
the place of day, he was once more seized with uneasiness. 
He could not rest quiet, and he began to walk the room in 
an agitated manner. He rang for a light, and, as Rosalie 
prepared his lamp, he asked for the second time : 


2 1 1 


The Triumph of Love . 

“Is Dr. Talvanne there ?” 

Rosalie looked at him astonished, and in a reproachful 
tone replied : 

“ Oh, he has been up-stairs, without once leaving, since 
morning ! ” 

Always “ up-stairs ” — not with mademoiselle, as she for- 
merly used to say ceremoniously, or familiarly — with 
Adrienne. Rameau stopped before Rosalie, and, looking, 
saw the tears running down her cheeks. He asked in a 
trembling voice : 

“ Has it grown worse ? ” 

At these words Rosalie burst out in tearful emotion 

“ Oh, monsieur, monsieur ! The darling that we brought 
up in down and feathers ! A-princess could not have been 
more petted and cared for ! And to see her now going off 
so miserably ! Mon Dieu / and must we now lose her, as 
we have already lost her mother ! ” 

On hearing these words Rameau remembered that it was 
on her who was weeping there before him he had imposed 
the duty of accompanying Conchita to Munzel’s. He no 
longer saw in her the faithful servant, trembling for the 
life of the beloved child, but the complaisant accomplice 
of the guilty wife. He cast a withering glance at her, and, 
in a cutting tone, said : 

“ You who conducted the mother to her lover, know full 
well that that girl is not my daughter. What comedy are 
you playing, in order to excite my pity ? You were like 
the others. You knew it all, did you not? ” 

“ By my hope of eternal salvation, I never knew anything 
about it until the poor madame confessed it all to me on 
her death-bed. I would have given my life that such a 
thing had never been ! ” 

“ Hypocrisy and lies ! ” exclaimed Rameau. “ Go out of 
here ! ” 

She drew back, frightened, and, clasping her hands to- 
gether, cried out : 

“ But the poor innocent little darling ! ” 


212 


The Triumph of Love . 

Rameau angrily replied : 

“ It is people like you who keep me away from her. Go 
on out of here ! ” 

Rosalie did not dare to utter a word in reply, but retired 
as hastily as possible. 

When Rameau was once more alone the tumultuous 
beating of his heart alarmed him. He believed that he 
had once more become master of himself. An inopportune 
word, an untimely request, and he was again precipitated 
into a violent passion. And against whom ? Against the 
woman whose untiring devotion he had been enabled to 
appreciate for the past five-and-twenty years. Was she 
responsible for a misfortune that she was not able to pre- 
vent? Oh, she did not utter a falsehood ! — he knew it. 

He relapsed into his melancholy mood on finding him- 
self so unarmed and feeble. 

A servant brought him his dinner, but he did not touch 
it. It was all over with his superiority of mind, which 
placed him above all compromise. In an instant he became 
a man again, like to his fellow-men, at the mercy of the 
heat of his blood and the sensibility of his nerves. He re- 
mained gloomy, with bowed head, revolving troublous 
thoughts in his mind. He felt himself very weak, since he 
had no longer to fear the attacks of Talvanne. His last 
outbreak had been provoked by the intervention of Rosa- 
lie. Pushed into his last intrenchments, he defended him- 
self with energy. Relegated to solitude and silence, his 
resistance collapsed. He was strong against others, not 
against himself. 

As on the night before, the desire of knowing what was 
taking place in the house presented itself invincibly to 
his mind. The picture of the poor sick girl, with Robert 
watching beside her, entreating her not to die, again rose 
clear before him, and the insidious voice that had already 
whispered in his ear made itself heard once more : “ Satis- 
fy your desire, then. Leave this room, go and find out 
the situation ; who will know it?” Always that hypocrit- 


The Triumph of Love. 215 

ical counsellor that urged him on to cowardice ! He grew 
indignant, and as if addressing some present, though in- 
visible being, exclaimed aloud : 

“ I will not go ! ” 

The hours glided by. He heard midnight sound. The 
silence around him was complete. The vehicles had ceased 
to roll on the streets. Not a sound, not a breath — solitude. 
One might have thought that an order had been given, so 
that the passage would be free to him, if he wished to 
ascend to the sick-room. He opened his window. His 
brow was burning. The pale and pure moon silvered with 
its light the trees in the garden. A nightingale was sing- 
ing in the lilacs, and the trills of the winged wooer made 
such salient contrast with the sepulchral sadness that en- 
circled Rameau, that it seemed to him the bird was sing- 
ing on a tomb. He did not wish to hear it longer, and he 
shut down the window. 

Hesitating still, he paced the room, tortured by the de- 
sire to go up-stairs. Then he left the room abruptly. He 
followed the corridor in the darkness, ascended the stairs, 
reached the upper floor, noiselessly entered the salon, and 
saw the door of the room half open, as the night before. 
He heard a voice. He approached. A man was seated by 
the lamp, in an arm-chair, but it was not Robert ; it was 
Talvanne. The old man, fatigued by his watching, and 
broken with emotion, could not conquer his lassitude, and 
had fallen asleep. The words that were heard were spoken 
by the patient in her incurable delirium, complaining as 
usual, and more emaciated, pale, and feverish than ever. 

Rameau entered the door of the chamber on tip-toe, as 
if he were a thief. He went over to the bed, and, standing 
beside the girl, looked in her face. The ravages of the 
disease appeared terrible to him, betraying a profound 
weakening of the system, and presaging approaching 
dissolution. Her eyes were closed, and he did not see 
their blue color, that would recall his infamous friend. 
Her blonde hair was obscured in the darkness, and he did 


214 


The Triumph of Love . 

not see its golden glow to remind him of h.s wrong. He 
only discerned the suffering mouth, whose lips, between 
kisses, had spoken so many tender words to him. He saw 
only the little hands, feverish and trembling, that had so 
often caressed him. He shuddered with regret, with pain 
and anxiety. That pale brow tempted his lips, he wished 
to kiss it as formerly, but the thought, meantime, filled 
him with horror. He stood like a statue of distress. 
Oh ! the agony, the malediction, of not being able to fall 
on his knees before that bed of suffering, of not having the 
right to encircle it with his arms, as with a living barrier 
against death. Oh ! the wretches, who had poisoned his 
heart, sullied his mind, destroyed his confidence, and dug 
that abyss of shame and repugnance between him and the 
child that he adored ! A wave of anger mounted to Ra- 
meau’s lips, and there, in presence of their dying child, he 
summoned the guilty pair to witness their infamy. 

Suddenly a tremor ran through his veins. A voice had 
spoken, saying, with an accent of inexpressible joy : 

“ Oh ! papa ! it is you ! at last ! ” 

Wholly overcome, Rameau wished to step backward, 
but the little trembling hand had seized him, and he felt 
its feverish warmth on his own. He saw Adrienne’s looks 
fixed on his. But he could not see if the eyes were blue 
even now, for they were overflown with tears. He strove 
again to withdraw, but the voice was raised once more in 
touching accents : 

“Oh ! papa ! I beg of you not to leave me ! ” 

He stopped, motionless, overwhelmed ; his feet almost 
sank under him. The voice was again heard, but in more 
feeble tones, and it seemed to Rameau to be that of the 
Adrienne of long ago, when she was as yet quite little, -was 
his daughter still, as they watched over her in her infan- 
tile illnesses. 

“Oh ! papa, I am sick, so sick ! And neither Talvanne 
nor Robert nor your other friends can do anything for 
me. You ! oh ! you ! if you love me as before ’’ 


The Triumph of Love. 2 1 5 

She raised herself on her elbow, and with a piteous ex- 
pression, continued : 

“ I do not wish to leave you, I want to live ! Oh ! papa, 
you have always saved all your patients, are you going to 
let me, your own child, die now ? ” 

Rameau could resist no longer. He bent down on tne 
bed, and lifting the helpless girl in his arms, pressed her 
to his bosom, and kissed her feverish lips and brow over 
and over again, as he answered in tremulous accents : 

“No! no! my darling, my only object of adoration on 
earth. You will not die. You will live to comfort me, to 
console me, and to love me ! ” 

She said softly : 

“ Oh ! you are yourself now. I have found you again — 
you are yourself. You must not let me sleep any more, 
for I have terrible dreams, in which you seem to thrust me 
away from you, and threaten to hurt me.” 

“ Do not fear any longer. You will sleep, out omy to 
make you well all the sooner.” 

He was standing erect, straightening his tall form, seem- 
ing to defy death, just as he had so often appeared at the 
pillow of the sick. Adrienne smiled on him. He placed 
his hand on her forehead, and in a moment, calm, with 
features relaxed, as if a sovereign will had commanded her 
malady to subside, she lay back peaceful and contented on 
her pillow. 

He gazed at her for an instant with a calm delight, and 
then, turning around, he found himself face to face with 
Talvanne, who had been watching him for some moments. 
Rameau raised his finger to command silence. Then the 
alienist approached his friend, and, clasping him in his 
arms, embraced him in an access of delight. The two men 
remained face to face, their hands joined, their counten- 
ances illumined with joy. At last, leading the doctor 
into the salon, Talvanne, with laughing eyes and joyous 
heart, whispered in his ear : 

“ I think I am entitled to go to bed and have a rest now.” 


2l6 


Light after Darkness. 

Rameau bowed his head, and answered in a low voice : 
“ Until to-morrow,” and taking leave of his friend went 
back and sat down beside Adrienne. 


CHAPTER XII. 

LIGHT AFTER DARKNESS. 

Talvanne, wno was accustomed to make so light of his 
medical knowledge, proved himself an eminent physician, 
when he declared to his illustrious confreres that the 
malady from which Adrienne suffered had its seat in the 
mind, and that it was not to be combated by ordinary 
means. From the moment that Rameau took his place 
beside her pillow, Adrienne, who, theretofore, seemed to 
offer no resistance to the malady, seemed to grow attached 
to life, and in a few days was out of danger. Under the 
eye of her father, she revived, like a chilly plant under the 
rays of the sun. She was now convalescent, very pale, 
still weak from the violent fever, but rapturously enjoying 
her restoration to life. 

So long as she had been in danger, Rameau not 
leave her, attending to her with that natural perception 
that had won him his universal renown. Following the 
disease step by step, he controlled it, and anticipated the 
crises, so as to combat them before they had time to de- 
velop. He thus restored to the girl’s health its regularity, 
for a time so gravely disturbed, and he joyously saw her 
emerge from that dangerous ordeal, more vigorous than 
before. 

Day and night he was untiring in his attention and care, 
in conjunction with Talvanne, Robert, and Rosalie, and he 
admired the discretion with which they all affected to sus- 
pect nothing of that drama which had shattered the exist- 
ence of the father and compromised that of the daughter. 


217 


Light after Darkness. 

But when Adrienne, reclining in her long chair, before the 
window, no longer needed but tranquillity and rest, the 
doctor returned to his cabinet and, alone with himself, en- 
deavored to analyze and comprehend the evolution that 
had taken place in the domain of his ideas. 

Rameau was not one of those common minds who resign 
themselves before an accomplished fact, without endeavor- 
ing to discover its causes and measure its effect. In a 
second he had seen his will waver, his resolutions change, 
and he sought to analyze the impulses of his being that 
induced this unexpected turn. He experienced no shame 
in having contradicted himself, he did not regret his sur- 
render, he was happy for having done so. He had re- 
gained the fullness of his love for Adrienne, although still 
certain that she was not his daughter. Perhaps, he even 
loved her all the more, as if by that moral conquest she 
had taken surer possession of him. 

A great trouble burdened his mind, and all his theories 
on the subject of amativity were overthrown. His mate- 
rialism was at war with the following problem: “ Here is a 
child, to whom I am not attached by any fleshly bond, that 
I ought to hate, for she is the material proof of my misfor- 
tune and my shame, and yet some unknown and invincible 
force unites me to her. Is it, then, the habit of loving 
her, that constant occupation which I have been engaged 
in, in relation to her, since her birth ? Then I would cherish 
in her my own happiness, and I would be pleased with her 
for the care I had lavished on her. Would so common- 
place an attachment, founded on reasons so low, have been 
able to resist the horror of the revelation that has been 
made to me, the anger with which it has inspired me? 
No!” 

And he remained pensive in face of that enigma of a 
love imposed on his heart, so to speak, by an inexplicable 
power, and against the authority of which he could not 
react. He experienced a feeling of uneasiness. It seemed 
to him that the edifice of his convictions trembled on its 


2l8 


Light after Darkness . 

base. Having reached the decline of life, retired from its 
struggles, strong in his immovable faith, he had believed 
that he possessed an absolute intellectual security. He 
was sure of having tested everything, examined every- 
thing, judged everything in the domain of man. He had 
imagined, then he could halt, like a traveller on the summit 
of a hill slowly and laboriously climbed, cast a peaceful 
glance over the road traversed, and then rest in complete 
quietude. 

And now suddenly the bounds of the territory travelled 
over receded, the horizons grew more remote, and were 
lost to view, and Rameau was astounded to find himself 
before an expanse immensely vaster than that he had ex- 
plored. Or, rather, this space which opened out before 
his eyes, as if a veil had suddenly been torn in twain, he 
began to understand, was not wholly unsuspected by him, 
but he had voluntarily turned away his eyes, so that he 
might not see it. The field of materialism was his pos- 
session, his conquest, and having arrived at the end, sud- 
denly, like Moses on Nebo mountain, he perceived an en- 
tire new country, the promised land whose existence he 
had denied, and which unrolled itself before him, the 
world of spiritualism, a thousand times more fruitful 
and more resplendent than all that he had theretofore ad- 
mired. 

With a tremor of unexpected initiation, he caught a 
glimpse of it, radiant and sublime. It was, indeed, the 
land where beauty was chaster, virtue sweeter, and love 
purer. Magnificent land of the ideal, where happiness was 
perennial, and where doubt disappeared in the tranquil 
light, like a cloud before the sun. Rameau, dazzled by 
the splendors that shone around him and penetrated him, 
endeavored to escape from their flames. He wished to 
flee, to descend again into his shadow. The immensity, 
through which he found himself borne, dismayed him, and 
he longed again for earth. He made an effort to re-enter 
the order of material facts once more. He grew calm, 


Light after Darkness. 


219 


recovered himself, and certain that he was not a victim of 
any sorcery, he asserted his reason, and endeavored to 
discuss. 

If he admitted a principle superior to matter, he would 
then be compelled to acknowledge that which he had de- 
nied with all the strength of his human pride — the exist- 
ence of a soul. He laughed bitterly at the thought. A 
soul ! Where was it ? In what part of the body was it 
domiciled ? Of what organ was it the motive power ? 
Was it in his brain it resided? Was it his heart that it set 
in motion ? He knew that to be impossible ! His soul 
was his intelligence, the ensemble of his ideas, developed 
and acquired by labor, the improvement of his physical 
instincts, augmented and refined, until they became moral 
qualities. The soul ? It was the operation — the putting 
in motion — of his free will and his volition. Nothing 
else ? 

And yet, he recalled, with astonishment, the fact that his 
inclination was to hate Adrienne ; that, left to his free will, 
he would have turned away from her in horror, and that, 
nevertheless, a force, that he could not define, but which 
he obeyed in spite of himself, had led him to the pillow 
of the child sprung from crime, and had inspired him with 
compassion, to fling him finally, trembling and penetrated 
with tenderness, at the feet of her whom he ought and 
wished to hate. And he loved her. ’Twas not a sudden 
surprise of the moment, a second of melting compassion 
provoked by a shock of the nerves, but a burst of mercy, 
profound and lasting, like a vivifying wave spread abun- 
dantly around. He loved her and, he felt clearly, that he 
would continue to love her all his life. 

"iVhat superior power, then, had opened that sacred 
fountain which refreshed his mind ? To what latent force 
within him did that power address itself? Oh ! Call it his 
intelligence or his soul, it existed, it burned, impalpable 
and divine, and it was neither the hazard of the elements 
nor the science of men that could have created it, 


220 


Light after Darkness . 

Elevated once more into the heavens, Rameau did not wish 
to descend to earth again. He felt an unknown enthusiasm 
overflow within him, a fire of gladness kindled in his soul. 
It seemed to him that his brow burned, as his mind was 
exalted and his whole being was filled with a superhuman 
joy. All his former convictions he condemned as false ; 
all his doctrines now appeared to him vain. Around him 
he saw nothing but sterile debris and dusty ruins. The 
certainty of a superior being, the principle of all great- 
ness, of all pity, and of all love, now appeared clear to 
him. With a cry of ineffable happiness, he confessed his 
blindness, and opened his eyes to the new light. 


Two months later, on a fine day toward the close of 
July, the church of Sainte-Clotilde was filled with the rep- 
resentatives of all the art and learning of Paris, come to 
witness the marriage of Mademoiselle Adrienne Rameau 
and Dr. Robert Servant. The nave and aisles were packed, 
and the throng flowed out on the street. Through the 
open door, the choir, resplendent with lights, could be 
seen, and the last notes of the nuptial march could be 
heard. 

The cortege had just entered, and, preceded by the two 
beadles striking the floors with the handles of their hal- 
berds, the bride leaning on her father’s arm, passed along 
the nave in the midst of a prolonged murmur. Her pink 
cheeks and golden hair shone through the whiteness of 
her veil. She walked with f a slow and graceful carriage, 
her eyes lowered in grave meditation, without hearing any 
of the praises passed on her beauty. Rameau, very pale, 
but smiling, and with a look of happiness, walked proudly 
and erect. Behind him came Talvanne and Robert and a 
long train of relatives and friends, bowing, as they passed 
between the rows of seats, to their acquaintances. And 
the organ, with joyous eclat, sending forth its pompous 
melody, exalted all hearts, while the flowers, spread all 


Light after Darkness. 221 

around, and the candles lighting up the darkness, dazzled 
the eyes. 

On reaching the seat prepared for them, the young 
couple took their places, and the ceremony began. Facing 
the choir, side by side, slightly separated from their family, 
seated in gilded chairs, they were both united in prayerful 
meditation. The priest at the altar was reading the sacred 
texts, and the silence was profound under the vaulted 
roof, disturbed only by the rumble of the carriages and 
the confused murmur of the curious on the street. 

Talvanne, seated beside Rameau, like a brother, gazed 
with pleasure at the young couple, admiring the beauty of 
the bride and the elegant form of the husband. And rec- 
ollecting all the efforts that had been made in order to 
secure their happiness, he blessed the Providence that had 
manifested its sovereign will. After so many dangers and 
trials they had reached the haven ; their sufferings were 
now over, and the future would bring only happiness and 

joy- 

At the same moment the priest, with measured step, 
descended from the altar to unite the . happy couple. 
Adrienne’s lifted veil revealed her face bowed in fervent 
prayer. To the question, “Will you take for your hus- 
band ?” she answered, “Yes,” with quiet distinctness, 

and her look, slightly turned aside, fixed itself on her 
father, as if to offer him all the happiness that filled her 
heart. 

This glance of her sweet, blue eyes expressed a love so 
profound that Rameau’s heart felt a thrill of exquisite de- 
light. Meantime the sun, lighting up the windows of the 
choir, caressed with its rays the golden head of Adrienne, 
and illumined it as with an aureole of glory. She appeared 
transfigured, almost isolated, in a divine light, like a youth- 
ful saint descended among men. Rameau, in spite of 
these azure eyes and golden hair, no longer saw in her the 
child of wrong, but an angel that had been sent to him to 
comfort and console him in his troubles. All the bitter- 
ness and sorrow that remained in his breast melted in a 
delicious ecstasy, and, filled with humility and gratitude, 
he bowed his head. Talvanne, hearing Rameau speaking 
in a low voice, leaned over to listen, and he caught these 
words, breathed with a burning fervor : 

“ My God ! Oh, my God ! ” 

It was the atheist who was praying ! 


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meral boom, and yet the interest of none was so well sustained, so ably dwelt upon, so 
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written by Clarence M. Boutelle. The story opens with a murder committed by some un- 
known person, and which from various reasons was particularly atrocious. Every reason is 
given to locate the deed upon an especially unfortunate individual, who apparently, had a 
knack for making trouble for himself. His trial occurred in due season, and the scene at 
the court-room is one of the most realistic and exciting I have read. The p ot is complete 
and intricate, the mystery continues unsolved until the concluding chapter. The language 
is easy and rythmic and every page has its bit of excitement as earnest and intense as the 
reader could well wish. The volume is a readable one, and there need be no fear of a lapse 
in its entertainment front the beginning to the end. 


12 Mo, 400 Pages. Paper Covers. Price 50 Cents. 


CTRANCER THAN FICTION. 

A Sensational Novel of Startling Interest. 


By KENNETH LEE. 

12 Mo. Paper Binding. Price 25 Cents. 


POLLARD Sc MOSS, Publishers, 42 Park Place and 37 Barclay Street, N. Y. 

For Sale by all Book and Newsdealers. 


THE CELEBEATED 

SOMMER 


GRAND, SQUARE, AND UPRIGHT 



ARE AT PRESENT THE HOST POPEEAR 

AND PREFERRED BY THE LEADING ARTISTS. 


The SOHMER Pianos are used in the 
following Institutions : 

Convent of the Sacred Heart, Manhattanville, 
N. Y. 

Vogt’s Conservatory of Music. 

Arnold’s Conservatory of Music, Brooklyn. 
Philadelphia Conservatory of Music. 

Villa de Sales Convent, Long Island. 

N. Y. Normal Conservatory of Music. 

Villa Maria Convent, Montreal. 

Vassar College, Poughkeepsie. 

And most all of the leading first-class theatres 
in New York and Brooklyn. 


THE WONDERFUL BIJOU GRAND 


(lately patented) by SOHTIER. & CO., 
the Smallest Grand ever manufactured 
(length only 5 feet), has created a sensation 
among musicians and artists. The music- 
loving public will find it in their interest to 
call at the warerooms of SOMMTEIt 
& CO. and examine the various Styles of 
Grand, Upright, and Square Pianos. The 
original and beautiful designs and improve- 
ments in Grand and Upright Pianos deserve 
special attention. 


Received First Prize Centennial Exposition , Philadelphia, 1876. 

Received First Prize at Exhibition , Montreal , Canada , 1881 and 1882. 


MANUFACTURERS OF GRAND, SQUARE, AND UPRIGHT PIANO-FORTES 
WAREROOMS: 149, 151, 153, 155 EAST 14th ST., N.Y. 

7 /l' 


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